Cowboy Poetry and Music and More at the BAR-D Ranch

Ennis, Texas
About Bill Hickman





A Real Cowboy

We were all sitting at the rodeo gate just talking 'bout Abilene,
How the horses didn't buck real well, but boy the bulls were mean,
We hoped the pens were better here, it's a long way to Mesquite.
No matter where you go, bronc riders need good horses to compete.

There were cowboys that I recognized, and many more I'd seen,
Some had been around awhile, some just young and green.
But up pulled an Escalade, all shinny black, never seen the dirt,
Out stepped a different kind of cowboy wearing an Aloha shirt.

He didn't have on Wranglers, but Bermuda shorts with Nikes on his feet,
He walked up to the window laid down money, he was here to complete.
Now we all laughed and grinned even though we'd never seen him ride nor rope,
We were pretty sure he was lost or had been smokin' some real strong dope.

When he paid his money, the entry board said his name was Johnny Most,
He told us he was a surfer and a cowboy, come to Texas from the west coast,
He didn't have on any kind of Stetson on, but visor with a little swoosh,
I thought, "Crowd will never know his name", they'd be laughing so hard up in the booth.

He called us "dudes" and "bro", said he was here to "shred" some bulls,
You don't call Texas cowboys dudes unless you want a fight or just a fool.
We all had brothers, but they wore Stetsons proudly on their heads,
And we rode broncs or bulls, why did, or what did he mean by shred?

Well the night came quickly we all gathered back behind the chutes,
We waited for Johnny would he be in tennes or did he have some boots?
We hoped that the visor would be gone he'd have a cowboy hat,
We hoped the he dropped the floppy shirt, maybe wear one with snaps.

Up the road came the Escalade, then out climbed Johnny Most,
He didn't look like the surfer dude, but a cowboy from the coast.
He had on crisp pressed Wranglers, and snaps upon his shirt,
Had all his tack, all "cowboyed up," ready now for ridin' work!

The first event was bare backs; he rode a rank one, and scored an eighty eight,
We were not watching just another rider come in first, he was something great.
The saddle bronc was marked out clean, Johnny spurred in perfect time,
We didn't want to look; when he took first with a score of eighty nine.

The bulls that night were rank and mean, seemed thick and extra wide,
They bucked off the first six, then Johnny made his perfect ride.
This bull jumped higher and spun faster that any bull we'd ever seen,
No one had ridden this animal for eight; he'd thrown off seventeen.

Well Johnny hung on for the eight, then easy, just stepped down lightly,
He waved to the crowd, smiled, then shook our hands politely.
We learned that maybe we were "dudes", wished he was our real "bro",
We didn't know what "shredding" was, but we do now, we'd seen his show.

We had all misjudged him because he didn't look or sound like us,
He had out "red necked" us all, fooled, we were left to eat his dust.
So now no matter when I see some cowboy, my grins and scorn I hide,
You never judge or know who a real cowboy is, until you see him ride.

© 2007, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Bill told us, "I got the idea for the poem when I was in Mesquite, Texas at the Resistol Arena. Since I am a transplant from the West Coast, I often get a good-natured bad time given to me for my Aloha shirts with my cowboy hat. However, I never rode roughstock as well as my character does in my poem, so maybe this was just my daydream for the day."


Head In My Hands

The vet shook his head and said it was time for my old mare to go,
I stopped and a tear made its way down my cheek, as if to say no.
But I knew it was time, I stroked and held her head in my hands.

I used to watch her run in the field with her mane and tail in the air,
I remembered that first ride, the compliments, "what a fine mare."
But I knew it was time, she nuzzled near, laid her head in my hands.

She trusted me and would take me anywhere I asked her to go,
Best on the ranch, but could have won ribbons at any horse show,
But I knew it was time, with one last breath her head laid in my hands

I've been thru many of life's loses and had many great loves,
I know all things are on loan, gifts, sent for our use from above,
But I knew it was time, this gift had been mine, her still head in my hands.

Time dulls all sadness I now feel so abundant and hard on my heart,
Each day I would look out to see her, it would make my day start,
But I knew it was the time, she couldn't be there, her head lay on my hands.

I can't seem to let go, we sit here alone, just one last look before I can leave,
Its a curious life pattern that comes, a strange pattern that life seems to weave,
But for the rest of my time, I'll wish I held those reins, with her head in my hands.

© 2007, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Bill told us, "I happened upon the sculpture and the artist at the National Finals Rodeo approximately five years ago. The sculpture that Stephen E. Lee calls "Before You Go" was the inspiration for my poem. I did not remember his name until I found him again this year (2009) at the National Finals and saw the sculpture once again. I got to give him a copy, which he sincerely thanked me for, and I was able to see the sculpture once again. This sculpture really touched me. Not only for the beauty of work by Stephen, but for the thought and feeling everyone must go through if they have ever owned a horse that trust and carries you everywhere. I have to say that his sculpture was just as touching and beautiful as the first time."




The Blackberry was ringing, the coyotes were singing, out under a West Texas sky,
The old cowboy's head was shaking, the noise it was making, what's up with this guy?
Hadn't he come out for riding, kinda hiding from the ways of this modern  day?
Next he was texting, which was very perplexing, and much to the old cowboy's dismay.

Camp was for rest, so you could be at your best for the day that came at sunrise,
Not for staying up late, scheduling due dates out here 'neath the stars and the skies.
The cowboy listened for an hour, his mood grew more sour, this modern and fancy new gear.
When he could take it no more, he walked up and tore the Bluetooth right out from his ear.

Now this caused some clatter, but it was less than the chatter we'd all been trying to block,
Now the man with the phone let out a loud groan he was in some kind of Verizon ear shock.
Completing his work the cowboy reached over and jerked the phone right out of his hand,
And with one smooth motion, causing further commotion, threw it out to the untamed land.

"Why old fool, you've just thrown out a tool, that's worth more than you make in a year."
"I don't think so sonny, don't define me by money, I'm the boss when you're way out here."
"You don't need a phone, except when you're at home for maybe calling your mother or dad."
"So rest for awhile, please, give it a couple hour's trial, I'll tell you the silence won't be so bad."

"You'll hear natural noises, make different choices about what's delightful to hear."
You're all out of whack, and I'll tell you a fact, peace and quiet is your biggest fear."
"Your type needs all kinds of stuff, but it's never enough, so don't bring it out to my home."
"I know there's a use, but my ears can't take this abuse, for sanity I disposed of your phone."

As the man sat down on a rock, still in a bit of a shock, he thought about life way out West,
He had no way to check in, in his world a big sin, so he sat back and started to rest.
He heard the wind in the trees, some things he couldn't see; he had many a new thoughts,
Thought about this day, about the old cowboy ways, not the things that he had or he bought.

Sitting back for a while, he started to smile: he'd be a cowboy and get rid of city strife,
The thought of giving it a try made him heady and high, be a big change in his life.
Take in the country sights, give up the noise and the lights, relax be good country folk,
Get up with the sun, never needing to run, he imagined he could give up his city yolk.

He then heard the grass buzz in the wind, relaxed with a grin, feeling good in just a short while,
Then closing his eyes, to his pleasant surprise; he began to drift off to sleep with a big smile.
He heard the coyotes singing, but wait; he heard ringing, jumped up and ran into the night.
Was it coming from over there, he couldn't tell just where, should he go left, next he spun to the right.

The old cowboy was waiting, sat anticipating for the thud as the man hit the ground.
You don't run around at night, without any moonlight, chasing some small bleepin' sound
So he lit up the coal oil lamp, set out from the camp, to see if he was dead wounded or hurt,
Searching around in the night, he spied a little blue light, the phone lay wedged in the dirt.

Not soul was in sight so he stepped on the blue light, smiled as he heard it shatter.
Walked on up the way, found the man sitting in a daze, his hair and clothes in a tatter.
"Better come on back, it's way past time for the sack; you'll feel sore but a lot better by dawn."
"I can't go just yet, if a message was left or sent, there will be a beep I won't hear if I'm gone."

"Why you are totally lost and I wish that my toss of that phone had been to a creek or a pond,"
It would have let you stay still, or at least until, you could get back your life that is gone."
"Why you tear out at beeps, it gives me the creeps, so let's relax and go look up at the stars,"
"You never know what's out here in the dark, this is no city park, camp's over there not too far."

So they wandered on back, followed the old cowboy's tracks and soon were down by the fire.
They talked for awhile, about all of the miles what they had in common and each could admire.
Days drifted on by and there were lots that would try, but no call heard thru the weekend.
Didn't seem to matter not to hear endless chatter, calls weren't received and none could he send.

So the city's fast pace, being out west did replace, he became a man attached once more,
When he returned, he wasn't the least bit concerned, but his work just couldn't be ignored.
So he had to replace the Blackberry, but smiles when he carries it to work, or wherever he goes,
Because he knows there's a place, he could lose this rat race, could be a cowboy out West if he chose.

© 2008, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Bill tells us this poem was inspired by "'cowboys and cowgirls' decked out in a hat, buckle, boots, and jeans riding their horses talking on a cell phone. Ask them for a knife, hoof pick, or awl and they never seem to have any of those, but they never forget their cell phones. It's just a sign that I'm getting to be a 'fuddy duddy' and too old to be a modern-day anything."


Lately I've noticed that horses have grown a little taller,
When I swing my leg up, my pants seem tighter and smaller.
But I'm not getting older the world just a changing
So I'm doing things different, I call it rearranging.
Rearranging the world to fit me and all of my ways,
I've noticed it's easier and I'm finding, it really pays,
To get different levels of stands no matter how tall the horse,
You just move him over near, get on much easier of course.
When I think that my rope closes up or doesn't get there,
Rearrange my thinking, "pollution", I learned in much different air.
And don't blame me for my achy back or constant sore legs,
"Cause I'm a perfect pear shape for a man of my senior age.
Installed auto feeders and waterers, buckets are messy at best,
Hired a hand for stalls and bales, helps me get much needed rest.
Rest I can use for import things that I really need to get done,
Like rearranging for eating, sleeping, talking, which is more fun.
I ride after cattle at a leisurely pace, taking a little  more care,
My horse and tack will last longer, cuts down on wear and tear.
I could go on how I haven't changed but rearranged I've not given in
No sir-eee, if there was a prize for rearranging I'm sure to win.
I thought about starting a consulting firm for all types of rearranging,
Because it not only Cowboys that change or think that they're ageing,
But when I had the papers all drawn up, for my new firm and corporation
I remembered, then rearranged, went back to my old restful occupation.

© 2009, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Bill comments, "The inspiration for this poem, hopefully, is obvious from the reading: things change and you have to change gracefully and not be too full of yourself."


It's Eatin' Time

Yes it's eatin' time at the ranch; each horse stands by the gate,
The dogs know their order and stand by patiently and wait,
The chickens peck at the dirt, feed is scattered all on the ground,
All the cats come up to trade the mice, long since dead they've found.

Yes it's eatin' time, I hear the sounds of feed, if I stand quiet in the barn.
The grinding of the grain, the cats mewing over theirs, it has a certain charm.
The dogs collars rattle on the dish they eat like theirs only comes once a year,
I stand quietly to listen to the symphony of this sound, its music to my ear.

Yes it's eatin' time and I stand in winter and feel the barn become warm and soft.
Oh, I stand still and just listen; to the sounds I hope are not ignored or ever lost.
Lost on a world with something hitting every ear, they won't get to feel this sound
That soothes and balances a soul, may it never fade but forever here be found.

Yes it's eatin' time and I fear the next ones after me won't have time to know,
The sound of contentment from animals that tell you its not what you have or show.
But what you give without reward by showing that you care for God's creatures here,
And that the thanks they show is sharing the sounds that I so longing describe here.

Yes it eatin' time and I wander toward the house and smell the food for me,
When I sit down I'll sure and thank my wife and God for all the things I see,
I hope that God is as contented as when I stand and listen to the ones in my barn,
I know he must enjoy listening to our thanks, knowing we are also full and warm.

© 2009, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Bill comments, "I wrote this poem for the simple things in life that seem to bring the most satisfaction. 'Be still' is in the Bible and I still believe when we are we can hear and see things that are more satisfying than all the 'entertainment' we think or are told we need."

"Ker-Blam" Good Horse

The horse that carried me in childhood is different today,
He doesn't do as much, even needs certain special types of hay.
Seems much more specialized seldom goes outside the ring.
No the horse of my childhood could do most everything.
My child horse herded cattle, roped steers and hit the trail,
He seemed to go everywhere I wanted, there without a fail.
I'd go along and hit road signs I hear them go—"ker-blam."
The horse of today would spook, that noise, they couldn't stand.
Oh there are cutting and roping horse that move quick and fast,
Then they take them to the masseuse; get mad if you dare laugh.
I'm not a "pooh-pooher" of all things new, but its really getting out of hand.
I'm just a regular cowboy that uses horses, I may not understand.
We use a horse for work and know they're not just like any 'ol tool,
But it will be a cold day
you know wherewhen I act like a fool
That takes them in for therapy, or to the parlor for treats,
Give me a good willing horse, kind mind and eye, those are hard to beat.
A horse like in my childhood that does and takes me where I want,
A horse that does all things and is "cowey," not one to show or flaunt.
Don't care for flashy or perfect color; give me a smooth trot.
One that thinks "ker-blams" are nothing, trusts me, those I like a lot.
Maybe I'm too fond of yesterday, when a horse was like a horse,
When you could find many of them, however much less specialized of course.
So I'll fade into my old cowboy sunset and leave this new progress alone.
But if you ever want a "ker-blam" good riding horse, drop on by my home.

© 2009, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Bill comments, "I wrote this poem about the horses of childhood that you could do anything on, not realizing one day trainers would charge lots of money to get your horse trained like we 'trained' them then."


Santa Is A Cowboy

‘Twas the night before Christmas somewhere way out in the West,
The cowboy was checking his herd before he laid down to rest.
Oh the winter air was crisp, clear sky; the stars were shinning bright,
He smiled broadly; he really loved when it was Christmas Eve night.

He was a cowboy had no a mantle, chimney or a roof.
But he’d figured out Santa’s secret, about Santa’s real truth.
So he rode toward his tent, rolled his bed roll out on the ground,
Just then he saw the streak in the sky, he heard the Santa sounds.

He could see the red sleigh and reindeer; Santa up in the sky,
Then heard Santa; “Whoa Donner and Blitzen,” all of Santa’s cries.
Then he knew what he had suspected thru all these many years.
One day he was thinking ‘bout rodeo time, it became so clear.

Lots had speculated how Santa made it around this big world,
There wasn’t enough time to visit each boy and every girl.
Scientists measured, calculated then said it couldn’t be done,
But every year Santa made it to all, on his Christmas run.

But to any cowboy that’s ever climbed up on a bucking chute,
Tied your hand to a bull, no time to act up or be a bit cute.
You nod your head, the gate flies open and your wild ride begins,
Knowing one thing, hang on tight, it’s just survival, not about win.

When you jump out and he bucks, drops, spins hard and really kicks
Those eight seconds are like hours or days, high up where you sit.
Cowboys know when you nod your head and all those that have tried
It is the longest few seconds in your life each crazy wild ride.

So as he looked up toward the sky where Santa just had streaked,
He knew Santa’s trip, to a cowboy, wasn’t all that unique.
He knew that with each ride time
stops! When you are out of control,
So Santa’s a Cowboy that nods, jumps out, rips from the North Pole.

© 2010, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Cuttin’ In

She walked up real soft and smiled so very sweet
“You dance?” You I would like very much to meet.
“Well I never learned to dance,” I said real low,
She winked said, “Why don’t you and I give it a go?”

Saw you ride today over in the cuttin’ pens,
They say you are the best, best there’s ever been.
Each ride was so smooth on each and every trip.
I saw just how you moved at those loose movin’ hips,

When you went deep to the fence I watched your ride
The steer moved back and forth, you went side to side.
When he turned back quick, you bumped him back to place,
I could teach you, your talent shouldn't go to waste.

I could put your rides to music, pure poetry
You rode them where needed, oh so easily,
Now’s your opportunity this is your chance.
Just got to get you on the floor, come on let’s dance.

Taught me to two step, waltz, and dance close and tight,
I thought back to that girl, things I learned that night.
Some things transfer natural over to another
Though not alike, yet similar to each other.

I do cutting with a different eye these days,
Each rides a dance that goes with my cutting ways.
As I go deep, toward the fence I think, then smile,
Like to see her, cut her out, dance again awhile.

© 2011, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Bill told us, "I came to write this poem because I think riding a cutting horse when cutting a steer is like a smooth smooth dance with someone who follows you and you follow them. The horse 'shadows' and 'dances' with the steer, like the movements of two good dancers when they are truly in rhythm. This was pointed out to me a long time ago, very much like the poem and the story it tells."


The Bay Mare

She wasn’t much to look at, that little bay mare,
Something about her that day, made me stop and stare?
I motioned to the auctioneer I like to bid,
“Sold!” he said you are the only one in this kid.

She was very young; oh she looked so frail and small,
Why I could have kept two or three in her boxed stall.
I fed her, turned her out, she didn’t run about,
Worried but she grew became very strong and stout.

Wherever I would ride most everyone would stop and stare,
I would then hear, “Sorta small that little bay mare.”
She’d cut and herd cattle go along hard all day.
Then go anywhere I wanted, that pretty little bay.

Everyone soon forgot to think about her small size,
They saw what I saw, her work and her kind soft eyes.
We saw her give colts that were the finest anywhere,
They all had to admit that I found one fine mare.

The miles traveled, cattle moved, the mountains of tasks,
Not once did she wavier, did whatever I would ask.
Rode her for twenty seasons then let her retire,
Now I look out each day, I still smile and admire.

Sure she has signs of age, gray thru out her thin mane,
In my eyes timeless beauty will always remain.
I don’t know all the gifts God gives, it starts at birth.
One of mine is when that little bay mare came to earth

© 2011, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Bill told us: In everyone's life there are special people and special animals. We do our best to train and bond with those few special animals that come our way. With special animals you have no idea what you did or why they are so "in tune" with you, so you just enjoy them while they are here on earth with you and thank God for them. These animals may not be what the world says are the greatest but they are those that you will remember as that "one." The one you will always tell your horse story about of on how, "I had this horse once..." The secret is to recognize when you have a special animal or person in your life, and appreciate them at the time. That is what I was trying to covey in this poem about the special, Little Bay Mare in mine.


The Sound

I walked out in the pasture, heard buzzing, felt the brush of grass,
The Texas sun was hot, air humid, summer coming on fast.
The colt ran with mom in tow, yesterday a stumbling new born.
Then leaning thru the fence stretched and tried to eat the half grown corn.

The ten week old puppies played with mom, weaned, heading for new homes,
They’ll herd their own cattle soon, have other fields to play and roam.
Heifers lay quiet in the shade, while their new calves run all around,
Standing there in the air, felt, tasted, observed then heard “the sound.”

The sound of peace and solitude, a quiet peace of country mind,
A sound that’s disappearing, becoming so hard to find.
When has the sight of newness stopped you, and made you really feel?
That there is a higher power, everything in front of you is real.

Not flashing, ringing, playing tunes or vying for your eyes,
That what you see and feel is not manufactured or a lie
Real in the best sense of the word, as it was first intended,
Not twisted, reinvented, legislated, or amended?

That’s how I feel by walking out, and looking around each day,
This new world is not so bad, but there is another more graceful way.
One that shows you how and not how other folks think it should be,
Let’s me see; make up my own mind, but maybe that’s just me.

© 2011, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's permission.

Bill told usI wrote this one morning while out in my pasture witnessing the things that are written in this poem. It always strikes me just how fortunate rural life makes me feel, when others think that living out from the noise and the lights is a punishment. I like the "sound" of quiet, where the noise of flies and crickets can be heard, when there are times that the only thing I hear is silence, where no one is defining what I see or hear except me. I think I just rewrote the poem, it really says it all.


Reindeer Proof

My little grandson came to visit with us during the hot summer days,
He was right by my side when feeding animals and putting up the hay.
A million questions he would ask about everything, from what is this or that,
He decided to be a rancher he even had to have a cowboy hat.

He came in late December to visit, to help celebrate Christmas day,
Standing out in the cold he was looking at all the cattle eating hay.
“Grandpa, did you know that deer eat grass and hay, I read that in my school books,”
“I’d like to get some for just tonight,” he said as he picked up my hay hooks.

He then marched into the barn looking over at the alfalfa square bales,
"Grandpa maybe I will need your help or my plan will not succeed and fail.
I want to put some hay up by the chimney, for Rudolph and Santa’s deer,
When Santa’s brings my gift they can refuel, fill up and get some Christmas cheer."

We brought nine flakes of hay out of the barn and climbed up on the roof so high,
Laid nine flakes out and the only animals that could eat them had to fly,
Then he went inside to put out milk and cookies for Santa that night,
My grandson then pointed up, smiled said “Hay’s in place when they touch down tonight.”

I fell asleep that night putting all his toys and the Christmas things together,
I didn’t get a chance to go outside snow came with cold stormy weather.
The next morning I woke up my arm was being pulled by that little boy,
He was all dressed up warm to go outside before he opened up his toys.

We then went over to the ladder to go up; we climbed back on the roof,
To see if the hay was there or gone this would assure him and give him proof.
I was afraid that he might be disillusioned was Santa real for sure,
Now we both believe, hay was gone; behind were left nine small piles of deer manure.

© 2011, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's permission.

This poem is a part of Christmas at the BAR-D, 2011

Poster Man

I noticed an old cowboy standing at the bar staring into space,
In the dim light of the bar, I could see tears, a sad look on his face.
The direction he was looking, there was a poster up on the wall,
A rider at a long past rodeo, smiling, handsome, young and tall.

He reached out for a napkin, then wiped his face and all the tears away,
It was obvious his life had left him bent, all beat down hard and gray.
His old felt hat was worn and stained from its many years out in the sun,
The denim pants, his old shirt and jacket thin, boots all worn out and done.

Couldn’t help but wonder why he was so sad a moment just before,
So I stood, then walked very cautiously across the old bars wooden floor.
I looked up at the poster; there the young rider looked right back at me.
The perfect horse, pretty women all around were all that I could see.

Not one thing that looked remotely sad, so I turned back toward the man,
He was just staring down, thoughts far away, his head resting on his hand.
He spoke without looking, a gravely slow voice cracking, harsh not clear,
“I’ll bet you are thinking, I’m just an old drunk, only good for tears.”

Not expecting conversation, I was caught; hoped he hadn’t noticed me,
I stammered something out, about the poster and what all I could see.
Then he grinned, but I could see the mist still filled his old red heavy eyes,
“Please look again,” he said in a harsh command, which took me by surprise.

“You see that young cowboy sitting all pretty smiling, up on his horse?
He also sits here, thinking thru his life, felling nothing but remorse.
About all the things that have happened since that day very long ago,
That’s when I was the main attraction, the big star of that rodeo.”

I looked back at the poster; quickly turned and then looked right back at him,
I could see the resemblance, then asked a question, not to offend,
“Mister what has happened, your appearance makes me see you’ve had, a hard life?”
“Oh, it’s been of my own doing, it was me made it all full of strife.

"Woman there to the right of me, was my wife; had a little child,
Handsome little boy, took no time to care for them; being crazy wild.
I hung around the bars real late and of course I drank an awful lot,
So young and stupid, chased easy women, thought I never would get caught.

"Horses rode so well before, I began to have trouble and fall off,
The broken ribs, the jerks and bruises, took their toll, the ground wasn’t soft.
The money that I won spent on women, drugs and endless rounds of drinks,
I could have bought any ranch around, lost it all and never stopped to think.

"Didn’t miss my wife or son ‘til they left me, but both were soon long gone,
Complained to friends all about it, they couldn’t believe she’d stayed this long.
Friends and family left; they got tired of carrying me, dragging me back home.
Ridin’ days were over, didn’t have a skill or job, found myself alone.

"Jail time made me sober, finally got a job at the Hanford’s spread,
Didn’t have much to offer at that time, lucky just to have a bed.
Ol’ Jack treated me kind; life was turning right, things started to go well
Then started drinking, life turned sour again, then I went straight back to hell.

"Next job and the following all blended to a life of constant waste,
But for a short while touched the good life, you can see just a little taste.
I come in here now and then, helps me remember what I could have had,
Tonight my old memories bothered me they all went from good to bad."

His sobering words struck me like a bolt from a stormy summer sky,
Had many questions about this man’s life, but most I wanted to know why?
But standing up abruptly, picked up and drank the last drops of his drink,
As he passed he said, “Me and that poster man we outa make ya think.”

Never saw him again; died within a week; was almost gone that night,
When I’m in town, pass by that poster, think of him and his sorry sight.
I now pay close attention to life, take care to love my wife and kids,
That poster man’s last words, “we outa make you think,” yes sir you sure did.

© 2011, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's permission.


Bill told us, "The inspiration is from a poster I saw while visiting my uncle and aunt, in a cafe/bar called The Spot in Grangeville, Idaho. The scene I describe in the poster is real, the rest came from my head. I used to wonder what ever happened to the man in the poster. I wrote one poem about this poster with a happy ending and one with sad ending. This one, is obviously the sad one. In reality I never knew or met the cowboy in the picture, but with imagination anything is possible."



Therapy for Old Cowboys

I never knew that cowboys needed therapy but I now realize old ones must go,
Ones addicted to a horse, or roping, all the cowboy fun and of course the rodeo.
Now I don’t know if you ever seen a old cowboy give up some of these or maybe all,
It’s not a place you want to be or see when you or any cowboy has to hit the wall.

The deciding factor may not be age, but a series of accidents we call wrecks,
Then the real deciding factor can be your wife of all these years she finally objects,
She does this with love, with old pictures of your children you didn’t raise, may not recognize,
Tremors begin to start when you think about, not, saddling, riding or roping for a prize.

So what does an old cowboy like me do to help fight off bad habits and his addictions?
He then turns around and teaches all the grandkids and gives them all his cowboy afflictions.
While it doesn’t necessarily take the place, it lets the old cowboy’s bad habits down slow,
Best of all it lets us old cowboys tell grandkids all the aspects of what we’ve learned and know.

So if you see an old cowboy either shaking or looking low down and feeling depressed,
Just walk up and tell them you understand, and have a sure fire cure and something for their stress.
So depending on their age it can or may happen any time thru out their lives and days,
Tell them I found out the secret for this old cowboy and the grandkids are the only way.

Buying smaller gear and tack keeps me busy; it breaks me of my buying habit of course,
Then there’s hours of training young riders for their special events, and just how to ride a horse.
Then for some reason I get much more nervous watching grandkids set up in the roping box,
And then all the “cool” complements when I demonstrate and the kids say their grandpa “rocks.”

So as I set up here in the grandstands and the next one up is one of my protégées,
I yell out encouragements to each and what to watch for, then they nod and wave back at me,
And then their steer breaks out or their horse bucks out hard, I stand up and let out a grandpa cheer,
Theses feeling I now have are pure excitement, for me that nothing could ever quite come near.

By now my horse is out in the pasture eating grass, all tack is resting in my tack room,
I would think that one day soon some of my grandkids will be growing into this gear real soon.
They will take it, use it for their events, and this old cowboy will be their biggest fan,
This therapy has rehabilitated my afflictions and I’m fully cured cowboy man.

© 2011, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's permission.


Bill told us, "I wrote this for all the grandpas that are former cowboys or think that they were. Time changes all and it's fun to teach and root for the grand kids and small ones. Good therapy."

How Far I Have Grown

This is that day I wished never would have arrived.
My mom and dad are gone they’re no longer alive.
Us kids will sell and divide it like they both asked,
Since I’m the oldest I’m in charge of this last task.

I thought I needed more, I then moved far away,
But there’s no other place I thought more of each day,
Lessons they taught by hard work and being prepared,
It’s what they gave to us that showed they really cared.

Often thought, why did I feel at home here each time?
Mom would smile; dad would say I was looking just fine,
Wander around the farm, thinking of life thru my walk.
We’d sit for hours out on this porch, laugh and just talk.

I have many fond memories about this old farm,
Kissed my first girlfriend Judy, just outside that barn,
Dad helped train my first horse over there in that round pen,
In there’s dad’s tack room, for the trophies that’d we’d win.

Remember dad saying what a fine job that I’d done,
All the simple smiles, all in good clean loving fun.
Helping new puppies, calves, colts and putting out the feed,
Helping others, being there for our neighbors in need.

I got a spanking, a switch cut from that big tree,
It was love like that taught us and it made me see
There’s a better world out there, if I do my part.
Yes, those life lessons it gave us all soul and heart.

Years of long hours spent sitting on that old John Deere,
Growing bales of hay for the heifers and our steers.
Watching crops growing, and then dad praying for rain.
Now with them gone, I want to do it all again.

The crowd’s here, auction’s all ready to get started,
I’ll keep these memories after all have departed.
I think back standing here in this yard looking around,
Here’s where I came from, my life, here is where I’m found.

I hope I’ve left for my kids what mom and dad left me,
It’s not the things, but all life’s growing memories.
Memories not for what we had, or what they bought,
But for the heartfelt ones and love we all got.

So as I drive down this long road out for the last time,
I know that where I go everything will be just fine.
It’s not a place, or age, how far, but how I was grown,
This farm's a place, but mom and dad made it our home.

© 2011, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's permission.

Bill told us, "I have heard many people wonder about the home they grew up in and wonder how their parents knew so much about making home such a loving place. How did our parents make their place such a wonderful home and wonder if we are doing the same."

Santa Sees Red

Well it was early Christmas and I was in the barn,
The horses were all eating, the place was pretty warm.
I was wrapping presents on a board across hay bales,
And that is where I begin with this true Christmas tale.

Ol’ Paint was grinding grain my mare Molly munching hay
Was very early morn’ where last of night meets the day.
I had just wrapped up the last present that I had,
Then a noise from a top the barn, something had crashed bad.

I ran out the feed room, looked around at all the stalls,
The horses were scared and pressed hard up against the walls.
I looked all around and could not see one thing askew,
Then I heard footsteps in my loft, my suspicions grew.

However next thing that I saw was a giant large brown sack,
“Who’s there?” I shouted and listened for the answer back,
Just then Santa came down the steps white beard and red suit,
Cried, “Need a doctor quick, my injuries are acute.”

I didn’t argue, moved fast, put him in the truck,
I thought we would beat the snow storm, if we had some luck.
Got to the hospital, Santa went white, then passed out,
When the nurses saw Santa all gathered round about.

One nurse asked a question I didn’t know what to say,
“So you found Santa, now what has happened to his sleigh?”
“Santa came down from my hay loft after he had wrecked,”
“Only had time to get him here, I need to go check. “

I left him and asked that when he came around to call,
I jumped back in my truck sped home fast as I could haul.
Then drove home to the barn and climbed up the loft stairs fast.
At the top I felt the wind blow, a cold winter blast.

Santa crashed thru the loft doors and buried in the hay.
Except a few scratches no harm befell ‘ol Santa’s sleigh.
My doors were off the hinges not smashed to tiny bits,
I soon had them back on, the few boards and hinges fixed.

The hay was strewn all over, bales broken and a stray,
He’d be a goner if he hit anything else but the hay.
I sat the sleigh up straight and looked around for reindeer,
They must have gone on, just then a strange sound hit my ear .

Sounded just like tapping up on my ‘ol barn's tin roof,
I ran outside, shined a light took a picture just for proof.
The reindeer were all circling close to the top of the barn,
Once in awhile they get close and tap, like an alarm.

I yelled up, told them Santa had taken quite a spill
That they might want to land awhile or at least until
I heard back from Santa; see what he would want to do,
They came in for a landing, Rudolph said, “Who are you?”

I introduced myself, told them just where Santa was,
How’d you separate from the sleigh and from Santa Claus?
They all just chuckled loud and then pulled me close and near.
Please don’t tell, Santa getting hard of sight he can’t steer.

He sees things, then he don’t, never knows what he is near,
We’ve been using breakaway reigns, because of mortal fear.
Why if we hadn’t veered we could have wrecked your whole barn,
Had an awful ride last year, we now stay clear of harm?

We were going back North, good thing all toys delivered,
We all went inside we had all started to shiver.
Told them they were welcome to wait here and eat some hay,
We’ll wait to see if Santa made it thru this Christmas day.

We waited for the call, meantime fed all some extra hay,
They slept and rested thru Christmas, it was a long day.
Near evening got the call, Doc Jones, said Santa’s resting fine,
But there is another problem the old man’s getting blind.

Told Doc Rudolph had spilled the beans and told me this fact,
The real question, how to tell Santa that may take some tack.
Doc said he’d tell him; leave rest to Mrs. Claus and reindeer.
Thought about it, realized we had a whole’ nother year.

Rudolph asked on the rests behalf, if I’d call Mrs. Claus.
She’s worried; she may know why he’s not home and the cause.
Let her know he’s getting well, that he be heading home.
She has the elves to help her and won’t be all alone.

Rudolph said he’d discuss it with Mrs. Clause and the elves,
Santa glasses were for reading, they could stock the shelves.
Seeing far and flying was what he needed to see.
I recalled a doctor fixed eyes with laser surgery.

Would Santa be a candidate and would it fix his sight,
Rudolph said, “It better, or there wouldn’t be another flight.
Santa recovered came by my barn, loaded up the sleigh,
Truck headed due north, would there be flight for Christmas Day?

Kept in touch with Mrs. Claus and Rudolph, what would come of this?
Mrs. Claus told Santa put surgery first on his list.
Santa contacted experts wanted to know the best way,
President called, the fix be and him and the military.

Santa came thru perfect, fixed so he could fly again,
Not only fixed he had extra seeing things built in.
He could see for miles perfect could even see at night
They also made the sleigh turn as he looked left or right.

The added built ins had a big residual effect,
When in war zones with presents, if his sleigh they would detect,
When he’d focus a red light shoot out each of his eyes,
They’d all run and hide so not to be cut down to size,

As he flew over they would scatter, make ol Santa grin,
‘Cause of the surgery they gave him so he could focus in.
Sleigh showed up as a UFO, with the all the red lights,
Over houses it would hover but only on Christmas night.

So Santa's back, Rudolph’s smiling below his red nose,
Children getting presents, now North Pole will never close.
When you look on Christmas Eve and you see those red lights,
It’s good ol’ Santa, but now he has much better sight.

© 2012, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's permission.


I Can See the Future

I can see the future by looking outside my window,
Yes, I can see my future and just how the ranch will go.
The square hay bales are in and stacked high up in the ol’ barn,
Barn’s repaired, painted for winter where animals will be warm.
The round bales are lined up to the side like soldiers for war,
If the winter hits like usual, we’ll be ready and more.
The garden is turned under, ready for the spring to come,
The food that it produced all put up, all canning is done.
Feed bags are arranged; we have figured enough for each head,
Straw is stacked in the shed for all the winter calves warm bed.
Our fence posts are all straight, the wire stretched, no one to chase down.
Main road graveled by the county to make it into town.
All pastures mowed and turned up ready for the winter rye.
The others turned just waiting for spring, furrows standing by.
So on this fall day I look ahead, winter and the spring.
And for the near future I know what my future will bring.
Yes, ranchers have learned hard lessons, the future never sure.
But mostly they just get ready, each year all ready to endure.
So I look out, feel the crisp air, all seems to be arranged.
The future I can’t predict, however some things never change.
When some people read Tarot cards or go to their psychic,
I look out my window, see my future; I think I’ll like it.

© 2013, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's permission.


Bill comments, "I wrote this poem while looking around one late fall day. To paraphrase someone famous: having a ranch makes you live your live deliberately. I think is was Walt Whitman and he was talking about the woods, but I have always applied the thought and idea to ranching/farming. In a world of uncertainty there are just certain things you have to be ready for on a ranch. Living life deliberately may make your hands dirty, but helps keep your mind and heart clean."


I pushed her until she was breathless; I admit so was I,
But no matter how hard I rode her, still gave it her best try.
So I bargained with her owner and then loaded up that mare,
I started out for Texas; with that horse, we were quite a pair.

We got a job in Abilene, working on a cattle ranch,
For a cowboy in those days it was a perfect circumstance.
When they saw her, watched us ride, smiled then hired and welcomed us,
And for the next fifteen years, we ate West Texas cattle dust.

That mare put other horses to shame we became a local pair,
The Texans called us real “punchy”, about me and that stout mare.
Word punchy not a bad one when a West Texan calls you that,
Means there’s a good cowboy between his boots and his cowboy hat.

That mare and I became a story they’d tell when we had gone,
But in my estimation the stories they tell get it all wrong.
Some people forget the horse and they just focus on the hand,
It’s all about the horse; it’s never really about the man.

When you hear old stories about all the cowboy lore and such,
Don’t believe everything you hear or tend to believe too much.
For if I have learned a thing or two and all the reasons why,
Cowboys without good horses, is like a horse without a try.

© 2013, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's permission.


Bill comments, "I wrote this poem because I've seen a lot of people give credit where it is not due. I just think it important to realize where it is due. No where is it due more than to a good horse. I have had the privilege to know some really good horses, this gives just one of them their due and horses in general their due."


Dust seems to follow me wherever I go on this ranch,      

I know there is no escaping, not even one small chance.   

So I will blow, wipe, mop, and rinse to keep this nemesis down,  

But there is no denying I’m a rancher when I go to town.  


Took my wife to dinner to celebrate our special day,   

We were seated, and then the maître’ de came our way.    

My wife tried to hide her laugh as she looked over to me.    

He explained their napkins were laundered so, being lint free.  

The maitre de looked concerned, why did we react that way?  

We explained we were lucky to walk to our car each day   

Without hair, manure or mounds of dust being everywhere.   

So we were just amazed that he thought about lint, and cared.    

If there’s more of a contrast from the rural to the city,     

It has to be “dirty stuff” and all things that are gritty.  

You get used to it, that’s our life, until we get the hint,  

That there are City folks that concern themselves with lint!  

I understand that where you live makes your priorities,   

People have concerns that are important, maybe not for me.  

We chose where we want to live and just how our lives should go,    

The items that are important and the people we like to know.   

My wife and I we like to keep abreast of what life brings,   

Way out where we live we see benefits of simple things.    

Know that it’s for me, but it also seems to infect my wife.   

But it’s nice to know others have their different ways of life,     

We laughed about it later; lint the utmost importance,       

That who we are and where we live are both by choice and chance.    

The one thing I learned is some things we miss and some we hit,   

However one thing we’ll never worry about, that’s lint!   

© 2013, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's permission.


"Hey, You Born In A Barn?"


I was born on a ranch grew up with cattle, a rancher's son,
When kids put me down they would always use a line, this one,
"Hey, you born in a barn?"

Well I never knew the answer since that wasn't the case at all,
Tried to be confident, it still bothered me when they'd call.
"Hey, you born in a barn?"

I told my mom and dad how and what some of the kids would taunt,
It is not what I want to hear, it is not what I would want.
"Hey, you born in a barn?"

Preacher told about the nativity that first Christmas day,
How the Sheppard's and the wise men came and then I heard him say,
"Hey, Jesus was born in a barn!"

I started, my senses shot back to taunts I'd heard all my time,
Decided to never worry when I heard that stupid line.
"Hey, you born in a barn?"

I now turn and say "Yes sir that is where I wish I was born,"
Because God choose a barn, where wise men came to worship and adorn,
Christ was born in a manger and, "Hey, it was in a barn."

© 2013, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's permission.




The Gambler

Grandpa said that he was an old gambler back in eighty two,
Told my friends, asked, "Was he into dice or a poker playing fool?
Now grandpa never showed me any of the trade or any tricks,
One day I asked him to show us some of his moves just for kicks.

Expected him to take a deck of cards show us some fancy deal,
Maybe discuss the odds for twenty one, dice or the roulette wheel.
We were ready for the lesson maybe we could put it to use,
Then told us some of his wisdom, advice that was a bit obtuse.

“Boys I know you are looking for some gambling gaming advice,
It’s not the way I meant it, so listen, might make you think twice.
I was talking about the way God set up life for me to see,
Hopefully when I’m done you’ll see what a gambler is to me.”

Gamblers will plant a field; put their money inches in the ground,
Pray for rain but just enough, not too much, luck to spread it all around.
Buy a herd of cattle, breed, and then wait for what their life brings,
Knowing some years will be large and plenty and others will be lean.

I’ve seen some of my “gambler” friends make it thru for years and years,
But I’ve have seen more than one go broke; there is always that real fear.
You’ll have a family that depends on you for life and to survive,
Get thru all the gambling times, ranchers and farmers lead crazy lives.

What you gamble on is Mother Nature and markets of the world,
When you think you figured all the odds, something else comes unfurled.
The people that demand your goods want it dirt cheap or sometimes free,
So you see that’s what a gambler is, and what that means to me.

So boys there is lots to gamble on, not needing any tables,
You don’t need a fantasy league, or a track with race horse stables.
All you need to do is walk outside each of your doors look around,
There at your farm or ranch; that’s where the true gamblers can be found.

Just then grandma walked in asked if we needed drinks or anything,
All she heard was silence, Grandpa and us boys sat contemplating.
Then Grandpa winked and smiled then pointed said, “Boys then there’s my wife,”
“She's the biggest chance. A wife is the biggest gamble of your life. “


© 2013, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's permission.



Bill comments: I was inspired to write this poem by an almost true story in my life. I had mentioned something about gambling to some younger people including a grandson. My father had told me a real gambler was a farmer or a rancher—not some guy with a deck of cards. I remembered his words and repeated my fathers words to this group. They were impressed with my wisdom and it was all borrowed from my father-funny how that happens.




Ride all Night

As quiet as this land waiting for the morning to begin,
My mind drifts to a time long past I think of you again.
When you were my lady fair and I was your cowboy man,
And we loved and laughed and my life never seemed so grand.

I rode for the brand in mountains far, oh so far away,
Then I heard the misty rumor that you had gone astray.
Been lured by promises of a man known to be so cruel,
You had run from my memory and I was left the fool.

The night that I came to your side and you could not know why,
But I knew it was worth it to see the look in your eyes.
When you asked me then if this is what I would always do
Yes I said, “I would ride all night just for one dance with you.”

You had stole my heart, by your smile, and a light in you shone
I floated on the dance floor there we stepped all alone.
Your hand I asked for, your shy request was for more time,
I seemed to hold your heart close and then I pledged yours to mine.

I sit here in my saddle; gaze out to my end of earth,
Someday I will know why, and contemplate how much it’s worth.
So I hold on to my reins, and turn this horse around,
And wish that I could be, standing near you on solid ground.

Each time I ride this horse along thru the tall grass green,
Think of lost time, what you saw, if only I could have seen.
The ranch belongs to me, but I know what I would do,
Give it all away, ride all night, just for one dance with you.

© 2013, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's permission.


Simple Twine

There’s lot of things we throw away that could be used again,
We have become accustomed to “pitch it,” that’s just how it’s been.
But long ago I learned a lesson from dad and old grandpa,
That baling twine is something you just don’t throw away at all.

You save that string like it was made of gold for all kind of chores,
And when you think you don’t need it, that’s when you need it more.
It can tie down busted saddle parts or hold truck parts in place
Or hold a windblown hat on, to protect your head and face.

Hold a rope in place on a trail line that handy piece of twine,
See it in some denim pocket, a sure cowboy rancher sign.
It says he’s been doing this for some time, knows a trick or two,
It’s not his first rodeo, not green horn here, he’s not brand new.

I’ve seen many a person cowboyed up, cowboy hats and boots,
Telling their stories, about horses, bulls, ranches and bucking chutes.
But then I see them throw away things they should hold on to,
I tend to see not what they say they are, but it’s what they do.

Funny what some piece of busted twine tell me about a man,
Funny insights a cowboy gets as he become a ranch hand.
Seems that many little things can give a real cowboy away,
Simple as a piece of twine, that was once wrapped around some hay.

© 2014, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's permission.


First Christmas for a Cowboy

The old cowboy sat by the window, stared out in the night,
Checking for Santa Claus and all of his reindeers in flight.
The little boy that was asleep came toddling down the steps,
“Grandpa why are you still up, why you haven’t even slept.”

“Little man I’m waiting up to see Santa and his sleigh,
Each year is precious, so I want to see him come this way.
Can’t get enough of Christmas, stay up, watch ol’ Santa come,
That’s what I am doing so late up my precious little one.

But Grandpa aren’t you too old to believe in things unseen,
It seems all the grownups say Santa is just someone’s dream.
Well when I was your age I wanted me a little horse,
I waited for Christmas time I wrote to Santa of course.

When I got up on Christmas morn there stood a steed so fine,
You know the best part my Grandpa said that horse was all mine.
My Grandpa was there that night and he had a big ol’ smile,
Said that he had been up and watched for Santa all the while.

Said he unloaded the horse from the back of Santa sleigh,
And that was the start of my stock and all my cowboy ways.
“You know Grandpa I wrote Santa for a horse just like yours,
That way I could learn to ride and help you with all your chores.”

“That is a coincidence, I’d heard of your Christmas request,
And I sure Santa will be here soon and sure to do his best,
To make for sure the horse is from his finest stud and mare,
And your Grandpa will teach you to ride, and treat him with care.”

So curl up here, snuggle in and keep an eye out with me,
I’m sure that Santa got your horse, and that we both will see.
Well I feel asleep that night all warm against that fine old man.
Sure enough when the sun came up Santa had come to land.

My Grandpa taught me how to ride and all his cowboy ways,
And that is what I can do for this boy, now in his sleepy haze.
One day he’ll sit by the window and watch for Santa of course,
And there will be another little cowboy getting his first horse.


© 2014, Bill Hickman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's permission.



 The Christmas Present

An old cowboy closed the ‘ol barn door,
Then headed for the warmth of the house.
A Christmas poem ran thru his head,
About, “not even a mouse.”

The stars shined ever so brightly,
Twinkling in the sky tonight.
They’d showed the way to Mary’s baby
He then quietly sang, “Silent Night.”

Looking up to the heavens he smiled,
He sure was blessed to finally see,
What God had laid out for this cowboy
And just how all this life should be.

God’s goal seemed to be every Christmas
Was for him to live to see one more,
To feel and see the important things,
Remembering what went on before.

So he thought about the warmth inside,
Family, and all the Christmas cheer.
That he would feel it all again
The things he loved so near and dear.

Then he thought he heard ‘ol Santa’s sleigh,
Looking up, he knew that he was sure.
He saw the man in the bright red suit,
Christmas seemed to still be just as pure.

Brought a new horse once again this year,
To a little girl asleep upstairs,
And no matter how you know Santa,
This ol Santa brought it with care.

She would ride and see ‘ol Grandpa’s ranch,
She’d gather cattle with this old man,
She’d ride and rope like cowgirls of old,
It'd teach her to be all that she can.

Morning he’d hear screams, of wild delight
“Let’s ride now”; he knew what she will say,
And he knew that his Christmas present
Would be his—when they rode each day.

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





Waking up a Cowboy


Waking up for a rodeo cowboy is hard late in life,
My moans and groans, seem to always bring strange looks from my wife.
She tells me to quiet down already, so she can get some sleep,
But I can’t because the pain is irregular and yes, deep.

There was that bull in Abilene that stepped right on my shin,
Then that crazy bronc in Phoenix that stepped right there again.
They shoot a sharp twinge each and every morning getting my weight,
The twist they cause each time hits my back which isn’t great.

Then there’s my left arm from Cheyenne that was darn near torn off,
My neck was jarred everywhere, hitting hard dirt missing soft.
I sit and wait for parts to wake up different each day,
Seems each part has different schedule, that’s a price I pay.

When I was climbing up in those chutes, the nodding of my head,
Didn’t think my future be so hard just getting out of bed.
Once my morning ordeal is over I’m raring to go,
But each night as I lay down know getting up will be slow.

Some have asked me if it was worth it each and every day,
I say yes it was because it’s how cowboys get to play.
Ranching serious business, but rodeos that there’s fun.
I think this each day, only - when the pain subsides and is all done.

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




  About Bill Hickman:

I live 10 miles outside Ennis, TX, in a small rural Texas town, approximately 45 miles south of Dallas, TX. I have a small ranch with 4 1/2 horses, (one mini horse, four standard size). I enjoy all aspects of horse activity am fortunate to have enough property/pasture to ride all around on our property and wonderful neighbors that will let me ride on theirs. I do as much horse activities as my property will allow, since keeping the pastures and a small ranch take quite a bit of my time. Two of my horses are finished roping horses, ranched trained, cowey that I can do almost anything with from any type of cattle activity to long trail rides. My other two are one retired mare and one young one that needs lots of finish work. I enjoy living out of town, the quiet, and the wonderful people of Texas.



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