CowboyPoetry.com    Cowboy Poetry and Music and More at the BAR-D Ranch

 

About Chuck Larsen
Poems
Book and Recordings
Contacting Chuck Larsen

About Chuck Larsen

Cowboy Poet
Humorist, storyteller and B.S.’er
 

Growing up on his Dad’s place in South Dakota, Chuck had ample opportunity to…"do it all" when it came to working livestock.  He and his wife Linda now have a little place in the Upper North Platte River Valley near the town of Saratoga, Wyoming, where they keep a string of good cow horses and pack mules.  Although Chuck’s job at the Co-op takes up most of his time, he still finds plenty of opportunity to maintain his Cowboy Credentials, doin’ day work for local ranches.  In his "spare time," he keeps busy  ridin’ colts, fixin’ fence and packin’ into the high country with his mules.  Every once in a while you might also catch him announcing a local rodeo or…wranglin’ a few dudes.

Chuck’s unique style of writing and performing his poetry will allow you to “visualize” his cowboyin’ experiences as he relates them.

WARNINGChuck also has an imagination that takes the bit in its teeth once in a while!!!!!!!!

Chuck has been writing and performing his poetry since 1990, and has been featured at many Cowboy Gatherings around the country.

Chuck’s poetry has the ability to make you roll in the aisle with laughter or bring a sentimental tear to your eye, as you hear, see and become part of his performance.

Blue Cowboy Moon and Chuck’s latest recording Stock Tank Reflections are available on CD and his book You’re Gonna Get A Kick Outta This! would be a great addition to your Cowboy Poetry collection. 

To order these items or to book Chuck for your upcoming event please contact us at:

Chuck Larsen
P.O. Box 97
 Saratoga, Wyoming 82337
(307) 326-8949
linerider@union-tel.com

Poems

Treasures by the Hat Full
Monkey Business
Blue Cowboy Moon
Calvin' Out
Goodbyes
Coffee House Cowboy!

A Pack Rat Paradox


Treasures by the Hat Full

We spend our evenins' in the bunkhouse,
Fillin' that gap between day and night.
Talkin', sharin' the events of our lives
Until somebody'd douse the light.

Sooner or later it always happens,
Somebody'd bring up the old man again.
We'd talk about all he'd done,
About all the things he'd been.

Like how old was he really?
I guess nobody ever cared.
We'd all joshed about his age,
But to ask nobody ever dared.

He'd been a hand here forever,
And when somethin' ancient met his view.
The old man would reminisce, rememberin'
He'd been there when it was new.

He'd proudly wore a sweat stained hat,
Branded Stetson, styled Open-Road.
Levis faded, turned up at the cuff,
Boots of a rider, heeled, pointed toed.

We'd sit and talk of the old man,
In laughter and in reverent tones.
Of horses he'd ridden and outlived,
Now scattered memories and bones.

We remembered how he'd said goodbye,
His final moment held at bay.
One by one he'd called us in,
Near death he'd had his final say.

To Tom he'd passed his spurs,
To Ed his worn silver bit.
To Frank he gave his weathered saddle,
His boots to whoever they would fit.

Just a kid, scared as hell,
I'd stood there alone by his bed.
Hat in hand, heart throat high,
And listened to the words he said.

"What I'm givin' up are just things,
The real treasures are in my mind.
"I'll be takin' those with me now,
Takin' them, yet leavin them behind."

"I'm talkin' about everyday treasures,           
Those I've stolen, but never really took.
They're right smack in front of you,
If you'll take the time to look."

Like all those stars shinin' at night,
Or the rosy glow of a dawnin' sky.
Whispered colors of aspens in the fall,
Just take them, never askin' why."

"Like the walk of an honest horse,
On a day when the weather's good.
Like livin' the life I've lived,
Satisfied in knowin' that I could."

"Hell kid I'm just an old man,
Neither profound, all knowin' or wise.
See, I've just lived my whole life,
With open ears and open eyes."

"It's these secrets I'm leavin' you,
Along with this old hat of mine.
Look over my string of horses too,
Baldy or Nate might suit you fine."

I took the old mans cherished hat,
Along with his offered up advice.
I started gatherin' my treasures,
Things that come without a price.

Today I brushed an old bald-faced horse,
Over near the horse corral water gap.
Hearin' the water dance, tumble and fall,
On its way along life's treasure map.

Tonight if we talk of the old man,
I won't be tellin' them of our chat.
Like life's treasures, it's somethin',
I'm still keepin' under "his" old hat.

© 1998, Chuck Larsen
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Monkey Business

Heaven's out for me and the boys,
And we're to blame, it's a fact,
For what we did at the rodeo
Durin' the "Mutt Ridin' Monkey Act."

See, they take this little monkey,
Dude him up in cowboy gear,
They saddle up a collie dog,
Then on goes the "Monkateer."

They turn in a batch of sheep
And that collie dog goes to cuttin'.
The monkey hangs and scratches
While the mutt is gatherin' mutton.

Now we boys cooked up an idea,
One simmered under cowboy hats.
At the start of the monkey business
We dumped in a sack of cats.

Now this deal might have been dirty,
As a Trick it might have been cheap,
But, when old Shep saw those cats
She forgot all about those sheep!!

The monkey's just a hung out blur
As old Rover's coverin' ground.
The cats are leavin' the country
And they ain't monkeyin' around.

Now somethin' goes and happens,
Puttin' us boys in our place,
That monkey goes and "Monkies" up
And by God he's in the race.

The monkey builds a tail loop,
Over and unders Rover with his hat.
Makes a toss, jerks his slack,
The announcer bellers "5 flat"!!

Next they caught two old Tom cats
Out in front of the Buckin' chutes,
Left stuffed bottoms up,
Stuck in a pair of boots.

Old cat No.4's headed for the hills.
Hell bent on makin' her escape.
The little "Monkaroo" lays the trip
And the crowd is goin' ape.

Now the 5th and final feline
Was a wild and cagey critter.
Born and bred on the ranch,
Scratchin' boulders for kitty litter.

A one eyed, bob-tailed, spittin'
Chunk of hair, claw and hiss,
Who'd whipped lot's a dogs
Cat-tastrophe his cat-alyst.

The pooch puncher's comin' on,
Thunder rollin' from Rover's paws.
The crowd draws silent at the scene,
The cat waits like death's own jaws.

When from the crowd a savior appears,
An activist for animal rights.
Committed to ending animal exploitation,
Like rodeos and dog and kitty fights.

She was chargin' in with best intentions,
All that her noble cause embraces,
When the cat ran up her dress,
A huntin' higher places.

Around the arena the protester bucked,
With looks befuddled and beguiled.
The monkaroo just rode right on in
And I swear to God he smiled.

Under the dress a storm was ragin',
Shredded panty hose drifted down.
With protest sign she beat the lumps
As they raced inside the gown.

Reality "bites" replaced animal rights,
Nobel causes lost their purpose,
While her innermost beings
Were scratchin' near the surface.

Rodeo contestants tryin' to save the day
with brave and gallant rushes,
Were sucked into the whirlpool
Like a commode when it flushes.

Rodeo Clowns came to the rescue,
Though they hate to go and brag,
Seein' how it was they who finally
Let the cat out of the...Bag.

The protester left the arena
Dress and protestin' days in decent.
Instead of endin' the sport of rodeo
She'd gone and created a new event.

Now the monkey never recovered,
For awhile he hung out with rodeo stars.
Today he's just a broke down Monkaroo
Tellin' this story in "Monkey Bars."

© 1997, Chuck Larsen
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


 

Blue Cowboy Moon

Out there, darkness and moonlight intertwine.
Somewhere an old coyote howls and yips.
Layin' back I take a drink of the night,
Savor its bouquet, drinkin' in sips.
 
I silently toast all comrades,
Those with "Cowboy" in their soul.
Coyote cousins with the moon
Beckoned by a spur rowels toll.
 
Tonight I am back amongst the cattle,
Layin' back a bedroll for my bed.
Stretched out on grass and earth,
A million stars twinklin' over head.

Bone weary, sleep should come easy,
But I lay awake all open eyed.
In the moonlight the horses stand,
While moonbeams dance on shinin' hide.

I have come to do some searchin',
Call it a lackin' or call it a need.
To regain a life lost within me,
Where it lays dormant like a seed.

A sense of belongin' is buried deep,
Out here where lonely coyotes croon.
I only cowboy now when I can,
Every once in a blue moon.

The cook fire has long gone out,
The other boys lie around sleepin'.
Only the old man in the moon,
Knows the thoughts that I've been keepin'.

See I'm livin' the other life,
And I've given alot of given.
Oh it's true that I'm not dyin',
But it's true that I'm not livin'.

I'm a child of the horse and saddle,
Born to work this life I miss.
Birth rights to sun, grass and dirt,
Born to embrace the winds harsh kiss.

Tonight you'll find me amongst the cattle,
Thankful for a coyotes lonely tune.
Like me he gets drunk on the night,
Every once in a "Blue Moon."

© 1996, Chuck Larsen
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Calvin' Out

Shorty came up from Texas,
The state where everything is big.  
But, Shorty was no long drink of water,
In size he was just a little swig.
 
He'd hired on to calve some cows
of which most were big and tall.
Long of leg and big of frame.
bred up pure simmetal.

Now Shorty didn't let his size
hinder him in this chore.
For what he lacked in stature
he made up in brag and more.
 
Late one evenin' we spotted a cow
who had problems with her calvin',
And the old rip wasn't too happy
about the trouble she was havin'.
 
It took all of us to run her in
and to lock the head catch up tight.
Then stepin' forth Shorty replied
"Boy's I'll show you how it's done right."
 
We "Boys" lined up waitin' for the lesson,
while the professor commenced his teachin'.
But that cow was awful tall
and the teach had trouble reachin'.
 
Now that cow bein' large
took up most of that little stall.
And Shorty was quick to note
his feet would reach the back wall.
 
Shorty's boots clambered up the wall
without hint or premonition.
"Maximum reach,  he explained,
was obtained in the "horizontal" position."
 
Soaped and hovering, Shorty blindly groped
searchin' around the bovine's cavern.
The calvin' problem he assured us
he would soon quickly discern.

It was then that the head catch failed.
Chances are it would never happen again.
Bein' loose that old cow hauled back
with a force that drove ole' Shorty in!

I don't know how we gathered our wits
or how we kept that cow from stampedin',
But we struggled with calvin' chains
to catch boots that were rapidly retreatin'.
 
But alas, Shorty's Texas boots
pulled off and plumb away.
A reason that I wear lace-ups now 
When I go calvin' for the day.
 
The boss rushed to the house
to call out the local vet.
Excited he explained about the cow
but the part about Shorty he did forget.
 
The vet arrived and went to work
"Hell bent for election,"
On what he thought was to be
just a plain everyday type C-section.

Now cowboys ain't long on comment
and mostly short on givin' advice.
So concernin' Shorty's whereabouts
we sat as quiet as mice.
 
The vet made his first incision
still unaware of what he'd find.
And as he made the final cut
out protruded the Texan's little behind.

The poor vets' gapin' mouth
lost false teeth amongst the gore,
And his head made a resounding pop
as he passed out on the floor.
 
We "Innocent Bystanders" quickly pulled Shorty
and a new heifer calf to light.
Shorty never said a word about
whether we done it wrong or right.
 
We patched the old cow up
and stood back to survey the scene.
The vet passed out in the corner,
the cow lickin' her calf and Shorty clean.
 
The vet he never fully recovered.
He's takin' up a small animal vet occupation.
I hear now he requires an X-ray
prior to each major operation.
 
Poor Shorty left the outfit.
He couldn't handle one more smirk
or one more comment about his ability
to really get into his work.

For awhile he was the night calver
for a chinchilla ranch back east.
His fear of the head catch failin' again
was relative to the size of the beast.
 
Lately I've heard he's changed careers
and into new fields he's been branchin'.
Someone said he was holdin' seminars
on the art of Hole---istic ranchin."
 
© 1993, Chuck Larsen
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Goodbyes

Boys, thanks for meetin' here at the corrals.
See I'm leavin' and I'll make it clean.
I hate goodbyes, and as Cowboys go,
you'll know and understand what I mean.

 It ain't the ranch, nor the boss.
This outfit's fine and he's a regular guy.
Weather's not too hot, not too cold.
But it's "Out" that I'm gonna buy.

They're runnin' a good bunch of cows,
and Cookie's pies sure taste sweet.
I guess what it all boils down to
is just a case of "Itchy Feet."

I've got to be leavin' pretty quick.
At the highway I'll catch a ride.
Before I go, to each a final word.
I hope you'll take it all in stride.

Ole' Mike, damned your poker face.
Of the outfit you're the gamblin' one.
I'd be thinkin' I had you cornered
and then you'd go and make a run.

Skip, remember the night you were sick.
I sat by doin' what I could do.
These other boys hung around outside,
just waitin' 'til you pulled through.

Sonny, you're the colt of the bunch.
Kid, when I took you under my wing
you were so dumb and green.
Times I didn't think you'd learn anything.
 
Moon, you'll always be the ladies man.
We took that gal ridin' to see the view.
I did my best to catch her eye,
but she only had eyes for you.

Tuck, you were here in the beginning,
and you're right here at the end.
Seems we spent a lifetime on this range.
I guess this is adios old friend.

I hope you'll all remember me kindly,
and forgive me my peculiar ways.
They say I avoid most folks
and only talk to my horses most days.

I suppose that's just how I am.
I never thought of it as strange.
It's funny how a feller sets his ways,
too many years gone now to change.

I see at the bunkhouse they're awake
and this conversation's soundin' kinda sad.
So to you all I say Good-Bye,
the best string of horses I ever had.

© 1993, Chuck Larsen
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

 

Coffee House Cowboy!

In performin' my Cowboy Poetry
I stick to Cowboy Gatherin's as a rule.
Until the Coffee House guru called,
Said it'd be movin', like really cool.

He said their crowd was reachin' out
In darkness, sufferin' cultural incontinence.
Asked if I'd come release a vision
Of the West, the Cowboy experience.

I showed up on the given night.
Listened to their first urban poet.
He sure had a way with words,
But when he was finished I didn't know it.

I started feelin' pretty outa place.
By the second act I was feelin' worse.
Why I even got to wishin'
I'd of written a little free verse.

Then I was called up to share.
I dug in tryin' to get a grip.
To live up to the Cowboy way
I was gonna have to get hip.
 
Grabbin' the mic I said, "Hear Me"!
People, I have somethin' to share.
I'm from the wild Wyoming west
And man it's still Cowboy out there!
 
I live in the wind and sage.
From my porch I can void or shout,
But no one sees or hears me
Cuz we're like really - Far Out!
 
We herd the rangy bovine beasts.
The wide grassy plains our studio.
We ride reckless on our steeds.
Stoppin' in clouds of dust - Like Whoa!
 
I share this land with my wife.
A virtual goddess in the kitchen.
At the gate when sortin' cattle
Like man, she's really - Bitchin'!
 
Once I rode the wildest of broncos,
With all the makin's of a B movie.
Then he throwed me astraddle the barbwire.
Like man, this Cowboy life is Groovy!
 
Our lives are the many jobs we do.
Some we like, others we'd renege.
Like cleanin' stalls of equine metabolic residue.
It's somethin' ya - Really Gotta Dig!
 
There are those among you who'd scoff.
They know not that they are rude.
For they do not understand our vision.
To those we say - Hey Dude!
 
I hope you've shared my understandin'.
Gleaned the meanin' of my say.
I've cut deeply to my soul
And offered up the Cowboy way.
 
The coffee house crowd was really moved.
Sittin' speechless, uncertain what to do.
So feelin' pretty hip I followed up
With a Scooby Do or Two.
 
The crowd spilled cappuccino in applause
And I guess it just goes to show.
An ole Cowboy can -"Beat the Nick"
When he has somethin' to "Espress-o".

© 1995, Chuck Larsen
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

 

A Pack Rat Paradox

The conversation turned to joshin’
Mainly for the new Kid’s sake
He was as gullible as green can get
A city kid out to make or break

Now the old hands was just funnin’
Tellin’ windys, tale tales and the kind
When their talk turned to critters
The wildest and meanest came to mind

Like grizzly bears and mountain lions
Those that keep a fella on his toes
Then there’s wolves, rattlesnakes, scorpions,
To fill all your nightmare woes

The city kid was bug eyed now
Sweatin’ some up around his neck
The boys they grabbed another gear
And really stacked their deck

Old Ben winks and says the…Pack Rat
Is the meanest critter in the west
Known to pack off women and kids
Back to its collective lair and nest

A horrible haunting, nocturnal creature
Wild eyed, ferocious and furry
With yellow fangs like daggers
In its clutches, you’d beg it to hurry

By now, the kid was squirmin’ some
Because it was just that very day
He’d over heard the Cook sayin’
Pack Rats had stole some stuff away

Old Ben let fly a fatal blow
He loads his pistol up with lead
Lays it out on the apple box
“Just in case”…was all he said

There were smiles round the bunkhouse
When they blew the lantern out
Thinkin’ of Pack Rats and the Kid
And what bad dreams are all about

Now Old Ben had a nighttime ritual
Somethin’ only a few ever knew
It was his dissemblance of body parts
And there were quite a few


See he’d reached that point
Where hair and teeth had left
And he’d also lost an eye
A hooky steer responsible for its theft

But thanks to modern miracles
And a catalog from Monkey Ward
With wig, glass eye and some dentures
He’d been fully…falsely…restored

Each night he’d neatly place these items
On that apple box near his head
The one that separated his bunk
From the kid’s now shakin bunkhouse bed

The kid lay awake and listenin’
To sounds, a nighttime bunkhouse makes
The creakin’ of old floors and walls
Of snores, snorts, and “wind” that breaks

Then he heard a different sound
One that didn’t have a place
A scurryin’ of…here and there
Then those tiny steps would retrace

Now your mind can drive you crazy
When fear is at the wheel
And when somethin’ bumped his bunk
The kid knew that it was real

The kid lights a stove match
And in its faint and meager glow
He sees atop that apple box
A thing that caused his fear to grow

A ferocious fur ball set to pounce
The fixed stare of an unblinkin’ eye
The clenched sneer of yellow fangs
Silently insinuating… “you’re gonna die

The kid grabs Old Ben’s 45
And cuts loose a round
The bunkhouse comes to life
With the roaring of the sound

The first shot flipped Ben’s wig
And rolled it crossed the floor
The second sent his falsie’s flying
And chatterin’ out the door.
The third shot hits the glass eye
Sends it ricochetin’ east then west
The kid is open wide and screamin’
And Ben’s eye…he does ingest

The forth shot it went wild
And gut shot the pot bellied stove
The fifth shot followed the crew
As out the door they dove

The sixth shot was never fired
For the kid had fainted dead away
He’d seen the “falseless” face of death
In Ben…eye, hair and teeth gone astray.

Well, they never found Ben’s teeth
They must a flew a country mile
Some say they’ve seen an old cow
Under who’s tail…there’s a toothy smile

After days of anxious outhouse moments
Ben finally got back his eye of glass
The kid said it was somethin’ horrible
Seein…how some things come to pass

Baby Pack Rats were born next spring
Cute little fellas that we didn’t bother
See the joke round the bunkhouse was
That Ben’s missin’ wig was the father

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

 

A Believer’s Christmas

The Grange Hall was filled with folks
Ranch families from far and near
Small town folks came to gather
A tradition held each year

It’s the Annual Christmas Auction
In the spirit of giving they coalesce
A chance to share their bounty
A fundraiser for those with less

The auction items were many
Their variety knew no bounds
Some purchased in prior years
Back to make the rounds

Grandma Smith had her pies
Mrs. Jones had sewn a quilt
Aunt May brought canned peaches
Sam Higgins a bird house he’d built

Old Buck had made a bridle
And he’d attached a silver bit
The hardware store had coveralls
Several sizes they would fit

Miss Betty brought a batch of kittens
There were several frosted cakes
The sale barn donated a horse colt
There was iron art the Blacksmith makes

There’s an old 4-point deer mount
The joke is, it’s been here before
But each year it’s a “gag gift” favorite
And each year it goes for more

See it’s not about “what’s for sale”
It’s all about what this sale means
A chance for some to have Christmas
When a hard time intervenes

Now there’s a family in the corner
With luck as bad as you could allow
They’d done no buyin’ or sellin’
And they’d stood quiet up til now

See they’d been droughted out
Their hay crop had been nil
But they’d come to this auction
Driven by simple pride and will

The father nudged his little girl
And she took a forward step
Tucked away in her little arms
Was a puppy she had kept

This pup was from a pedigree
Whose fame went far and wide
This family had raised the best
All held “cow sense” deep inside

This pup was what they had to offer
Their auction item for this year
And it was the tear in the girl’s eye
That choked up the auctioneer

With all eyes on the girl and pup
Nobody noticed across the room
A little boy whisper to his dad
None saw the father’s smile bloom

“Three hundred”…loudly says the boy
Three hundred dollars is what I bid
The crowd in awe stood quiet
None would bid against the kid

“I’ll go four hundred” yells the boy
As he bid against his own
His father just sat there smilin’
His pride inside not shown

Then lookin’ over at his father
The boy saw his subtle wink
Says “I’ll go to Five Hundred”
“You can write that bid in ink”

Then buyer approached seller
The boy approached the little girl
The Grange Hall grew silent
Everyone’s heart was in a whirl

The boy smiled and took the pup
Then held it up for all to see
Then he gave it back…sayin’
"Merry Christmas from my dad and me.”

The joy in that little girl’s eyes
Will be with those folks for years
Grown men went to sobbin’
Everyone was burstin’ into tears

That winter’s night at the Grange Hall
The meaning of Christmas was clearly heard
Through a simple gesture of giving
Spoken in a believing child’s word.

© 2012, Chuck Larsen
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

 

Read Chuck Larsen's poem The Perfect Tree posted with other Holiday 2004 poems

 

 

 

Book and Recordings

 

Stock Tank Reflections

Chuck Larsen's Stock Tank Reflections CD includes:

Stock Tank Reflections
Monkey Business
Stretchin' the Truth
First Horses
Dad's Place
Calvin' Out
Salvation by Rumination
Dancin' Two a ...Breast
Sortin' Things Out
Fallin' Angel
Treasures by the Hat Full

$15 plus $2 shipping and handling

Chuck Larsen
P.O. Box 97 
Saratoga, Wyoming 82337
(307) 326-8949
linerider@union-tel.com

Our review from September, 2002: 

To avoid being bucked off your seat with laughter, it's best to heed Chuck Larsen's advice as he introduces his third and newest CD, Stock Tank Reflections, by saying "Take a deep seat and hold on to your hat..."  This occasional rodeo announcer knows what he's talking about and his professional voice delivers his special brand of humor in this rollicking collection of his all-original Cowboy Poetry.

"Monkey Business" is the hilarious account of a rodeo "mutt-riding monkey act" where "they dress a monkey up like a cowboy....which is not that hard a transition..."  When the animal rights' activist in the stands can take no more...well, both she and the monkey become legends in their own time.

Larsen creates more amusing situations in poems such as "Stretchin' the Truth," about an enterprising cowboy's adventures with his G. I. surplus bungee. Another victim of his inventive rhymes is a bragging Texan, Shorty, who ends up in the dark side of a cow in "Calvin' Out." In this complex and funny tale, after the head catch fails and the calving chains can't help, "Shorty's little Texas boots pulled off and came plumb away/the reason I wear lace-ups now,  when I go calvin' for a day." The cowboys don't mention Shorty's predicament to the vet, and the tale just gets funnier.

Other poets have told about the poor ranch wife having her Sunday Best ruined by what started out as her husband's "Honey can you help me a minute?," but maybe few are as funny as "Salvation by Rumination," where the wife lets her husband know what she thinks of being the target of his poor judgment -- while the preacher and his wife, unseen by her but not by him, take it all in.  In the same vein, Larsen introduces "Sortin' Things Out" asking women  "How many of you have helped your husband do anything that has worked out?" You can't help but think these poems are based on experience, most probably painful at the time.

Larsen is a sort of wizard with words and rhymes, and he writes good serious material as well.  "Stock" takes on more than one meaning in the title piece, "Stock Tank Reflections," full of thoughtful mid-life wisdom. Other serious poems honor a father, a first horse, and "Treasures by the Hat Full" is a beautifully reverent poem about the wisdom of an old cowboy.

Scott Platts' guitar and mandolin pieces provide pleasing interludes between each poem, giving the listener time to either recover from the hilarity or to get ready for a more serious poem.

Chuck Larsen grew up on a South Dakota ranch and now lives in Wyoming where he still does some day work. He's a versatile writer, and while all of his material is well written and well delivered, it's the humorous poems that stay with you. Nona Carver Kelley finds just the right description for him in a recent report of an event at the Cheyenne Cowboy Symposium "at the Cheyenne Civic Center with (is he hilarious or what?) Chuck Larsen as Emcee and entertainer."  The answer to that question is definitely not "or what."

You'll want to get your own copy of  Stock Tank Reflections for $17 postpaid from Chuck Larsen, P.O. Box 97, Saratoga, Wyoming 82331 (307) 326-8949 linerider@carbonpower.net


You're Gonna Get a Kick Outta This!
 


Chuck Larsen's You're Gonna Get a Kick Outta This! book includes:

The Dream
Calvin' Out
Dancin' Two A ... Breast
Green Grass Romance
Baked Potato Runaway
The Teller
Lookin' Back
The Legacy
The Marriage
Mule for Sale
I Coulda' Been
When Grandma Saw the Light
Fallen Angel
Rosita's
Wrangler Buns
Just a Horse
Takin' Care of the Nuptials
Old Droopy Drawers
Horses and People
The Silkworm's Revenge
A Good Endin'
Dad's Place
Achin' Pride
Goodbyes
Slim
Mule-Tied Christmas
The Perfect Tree
New Material

$7 plus $2 shipping and handling

Chuck Larsen
P.O. Box 97 
Saratoga, Wyoming 82337
(307) 326-8949
linerider@union-tel.com


Blue Cowboy Moon

Chuck Larsen's Blue Cowboy Moon CD includes:

Wrangler Buns
Goodbyes
Silkworm's Revenge
Rosita's
Ear-Rational Behavior
Blue Cowboy Moon
Coffeehouse Cowboy
Horses & People
Letters from the Trail

 

$15 plus $2 shipping and handling

Chuck Larsen
P.O. Box 97 
Saratoga, Wyoming 82337
(307) 326-8949
linerider@union-tel.com


Wyocpbk.jpg (7975 bytes) 

Chuck Larsen's poetry is included in Wyoming's Cowboy Poets. The 201-page book contains brief profiles of 28 Wyoming cowboy poets, their photos and samples of their poetry. The introduction is written by Montana humorist/poet Gwen Petersen.  The editor, Jean Henry-Mead, is a novelist and award-winning photojournalist, founder of the Western Writers Hall of Fame, and former teacher in the Wyoming Poetry in the Schools Program with Peggy Simson Curry. Read more about the book and at Jean Henry-Mead's Sagebrush and Sleuths web site, where you can order the book.  Wyoming's Cowboy Poets is also available by check or money order from Medallion Books, 8344 Shady Lane, Evansville, WY 82636 for $19.95 postpaid (paperback) or  $27.45 postpaid (hardcover). Please add 5% sales tax if ordered within Wyoming.  

 

Contacting Chuck Larsen:

Chuck Larsen
P.O. Box 97
 Saratoga, Wyoming 82337
(307) 326-8949
linerider@union-tel.com

 

 

 

 

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