Named
Academy of Western Artists' (AWA)
Best Female Poet
2002
About Debra
Coppinger Hill
Poems
Awards and Publications
Recordings
Contacting Debra Coppinger Hill
This is Page 1 of Debra Coppinger Hill's poetry
Page 2 with more poetry is here.
Page 3, with
the title track and track list with links to other poems from her CD,
Common Sense, Men and Horses
is here.
About Debra Coppinger Hill
Debra Coppinger Hill describes herself as "Cowboy Poet, Humorist, Columnist and Puppeteer." She's such a pard to us here, some say the "D" in "BAR-D" stands for "Debra." We're honored to have her poetry and to tell you a bit about her.
Debra Coppinger Hill lives in rural Rogers Co. Oklahoma, just north of Chelsea on the border of Catale. She is the ranch manager for the family operation, the 4DH Ranch, where they raise Cutting and Ranch Bred Horses, hay and Brahman cross cattle. She draws from her daily experiences, giving her writing a "been there, done that" quality that people identify with. Her column, "Ridin' Drag" features stories about her life on the ranch, as well as stories about Western History, culture, events, family and friends.
Her love of Western Literature and writing was fostered by her Grandfathers and Great Grandfathers. From them she heard the tales of Texas and of being a Cowboy, and the stories of the Cherokees. She also attributes her love of stories of the past to the rest of her family, who all love to tell and
re-tell family and Indian lore.Her writing includes Cowboy Poetry, Western song lyrics for various performers, promotions and publicity materials and several regular columns for various publications. Her work is included in several two books, "Cowboys Are Part Human" (by Southwest Whispers) and the Gibbs-Smith Elko Companion book "Cowgirl Poetry" and will appear in the upcoming "Big Roundup." from CowboyPoetry.com. Her column "Ridin' Drag", appears in Canadian Cowboy Country and the Cowboy Gazette. Her works are also featured among the Honored Guests at CowboyPoetry.com and has also been seen in American Cowboy Magazine.
Debra Performs at public and private functions across the U.S., often with one of her Outrider, COPAS or Nighthawk partners, Casey Allen, Doc Stovall, Jerry Warren, Jay Snider, Kevin Davis or Tim Graham. She and her associates present an educational program (that features the Buckaroo puppets) for school and children's groups, that has a Western theme and and anti-drug/alcohol message.
Having lived in various parts of the country before returning to Oklahoma, Debra has found most people will respond to a piece of writing if it reminds them of home or family. She believes all families should share their histories, "Because in looking back, we can see more clearly where to go. A
common history is what defines family and country. After-all, we make the world we live in. For good things to survive, we have to take on the responsibility of promoting their positive aspects. It is our duty and our sacred trust."
Debra is affiliated with several groups who are
Dedicated to the Preservation of the Spirit of the West.
OutridersCOPAS (Cowboy Performing Arts Society)
The Charley Russell Western Heritage Association
(Charter Mem./ Regular contributing writer Cowboy Gazette,
Current National Director of Publicity and Promotions)
Academy of Western Artists (Charter Member)
Western Music Association
Cowtown Opry
Texas Cowboy Poets Association
Southwest Nighthawks Association
Debra & her partners are happy to tailor a show to fit your budget.
They can provide you with a one person show or a group of performers.
(Chuckwagons available.)
Yellow Slicker
Mustangs
Listen
The Money for Her Diamond
The Stud?
Waiting
Jake
Buffalo Dance
Regret
Outlaw?
The Truth
Wild Stickhorse Remuda
Melancholy Cowboy
The Stranger (posted with Holiday 2000 poems)
12 Days of Cowboy Christmas (posted with Holiday 2000 poems)
Bitten
The Edge
Best Ride I Ever Had
Dirt Road
Waiting for the Light
Barn Therapy
New Mexico(the following are posted on Page 2, here)
A Mother's Broken Heart
The American Cowboy
Through the Dust
Echoes of the Canyon
Udoda (Father)
A Place in the Heart
Spirits of Truth
The title track from Common Sense, Men and Horses is here on Page 3.
Track List for links to other poems
and links to audio samples.
YELLOW SLICKER
(To "Miss Oleta" Nichols, Pioneer, Lady, Texan)
She wore his yellow slicker,
Though it almost drug the ground,
It seemed to make things easier,
As if He was still around.
He’d left her some big boots,
She was gonna’ have to fill,
But his old yellow slicker,
It seemed to give her the Will.
The Will to keep on going,
The Will to be wise and strong,
The Will to make their dreams come true,
And remember, where she belonged.
She wore it to feed the cattle,
And when she cleaned the stalls,
She hung it on that high nail by the door,
And remembered He was tall.
She wore it every time,
Storm clouds came rushing in,
She even wore it sometimes,
Just so the tears would not begin.
She wore it to keep the wet out,
And to hold the cold at bay,
It eased the hardness of the ground,
Each time she knelt to pray.
She wore it to chop the tanks,
And when she mended fence,
She wore it on the best of days,
And on the ones that made no sense.
She wore it when it was ragged,
And had completely lost it’s charm,
Because, if she was inside of it,
She was back inside his arms.
It’s just an old yellow slicker,
But it made her life complete,
It reminded her what’s important,
And it kept her on her feet.
She wore it across a lifetime,
And she never felt alone,
She raised their kids, she raised their cows,
And she made their farm a home.
And when she’s gone, she tells the kids,
Just hang it on that nail in the barn,
Then look at it, and in your hearts know,
His yellow slicker, saved the farm.
© 1996 Debra Coppinger Hill, All Rights Reserved
MUSTANGS
I went to work for him that year,
early on, in the fall,
It was my job to help feed,
water, and clean the stalls.
The quarter horses that he raised,
were among the finest to be seen.
Then there were the mustangs,
rough and rank and mean.
From time to time, the mustangs,
would somehow make an escape,
No matter how carefully it was chained,
they seemed to be able to open the gate.
Then we’d saddle-up and chase ‘em,
and push ‘em back to the pens,
When it came to the mustangs,
trouble knew no end.
He never really answered,
when I asked him why,
He kept these three, who were dangerous,
with such wildness in their eyes.
Once, he said,”They’re the last of our kind,
a rare and special breed,
Spirits, not of this earth,
waiting to be freed.”
This didn’t help me understand,
the mustangs or this man,
Who seemed to keep them at all costs,
though they didn’t wear his brand.
Then , one day as we fed, I saw him...
as He took loose the chain...
Softly, he said, “Come with me”,
and we walked to the truck in the rain.
We rode the truck to the hill,
where we could see for miles.
Motioning to the tailgate, he bade me sit,
and gave me a knowing smile.
Below, the mustangs had finished their feed,
and, as if they had good sense,
They began their morning journey,
around their pasture, checking fence.
When they came to the gate,
for a moment, they did pause,
And gave a glance towards the hill,
as if they knew the cause.
I will remember the next few moments,
Forever, they are etched into my mind,
And the emotion I felt, as we sat in silence,
never again, shall I find.
We watched them bolt from the gate,
Running for all they were worth,
All four feet up off the ground,
Flying, between Heaven and Earth.
The explanation that he gave,
he didn’t have to give.
But, his words ring in my memory,
all the days, that I live.
He said, “ I let them go sometimes,
so I can remember, when I see,
What it’s like to break loose,
and truly, be Free.
For awhile I’m allowed, by Grace of God,
to be a part of wondrous, unseen forces...
And that, my fine young friend,
is why I keep wild horses."
© 1997 Debra Coppinger Hill, All Rights Reserved.
When the horses talk to me,
They tell me many things,
Whats and hows of yesterday,
Why the nighthawk sings.
I learn the meaning of the dance.
Between animals and men,
They inspire me to take the chance,
To look back on where I’ve been.
On this plain where we live,
In the circle at the center,
You receive more than you give,
When privileged to enter.
So I close my eyes in trust and walk,
And listen, to the horses talk.
© Debra Coppinger Hill 1998, All Rights Reserved
THE MONEY FOR HER DIAMOND
In the heat of July,
While bringing in the hay,
He gave her a baling wire ring, And this is what he had to say...
“Someday I’ll put a diamond,
Here on your hand.
A diamond pure and perfect,
As sure as I’m your man.
But, you know, a diamond,
It won’t ever shine,
As long or as bright,
As this love of yours and mine.”
So they saved for her diamond,
By putting little bits away,
Money for the diamond,
He would buy for her one day.
But the money for her diamond,
Fixed the tractor and bought a plow,
And in the dead of winter,
Paid the vet. bill for the cow.
The money for her diamond,
Put the water to the barn,
And paid the increased taxes,
The county levied on the farm.
The money for her diamond,
Paid the doctor in town,
And when their daughters were all grown,
It bought the wedding gowns.
It paid for the new roof,
When the big wind came through.
Then it it paid off the mortgage,
Before it was due.
The money for her diamond,
Was always well spent,
She never even asked him,
Just where the money went.
The money for her diamond,
Helped them to survive,
The money for her diamond,
Kept their hopes and dreams alive.
Today it’s been sixty-three years,
And the diamond is on her hand.
But, as usual, in her pocket,
Lies her original wedding band.
A twist of baling wire,
Bent and covered up in rust,
A symbol of the greatest of loves,
His Promise and Her Trust.
© 1996 Debra Coppinger Hill, All Rights Reserved
THE STUD?
He reminded me of Peter Ustinov,
In “We’re No Angels”, with Bogie and Aldo Ray,
Each time he looked at me he was repeating that one line,
“Oh, it’s that delicious fat woman from yesterday!”
One thing that I don’t tolerate,
In children or a horse,
Is excessive use of one’s teeth,
It’s the rule I strictly enforce.
But he would lurk behind the tool shed,
Laying in wait for his chance,
To take a hefty nip or two,
From the seat of my ample pants.
He always took his nibbles,
When my husband didn’t see,
And like a fool I let my husband
Lull me into a false sense of security.
He said the Stud was full of spirit,
And I was just misunderstanding,
The horse only wanted my attention,
He was just a little demanding.
And like a MORON I listened,
And I learned a lesson hard,
On why you trust your gut instincts,
And never drop your guard.
A month went by and he kept in check,
His over-sized pearly-whites,
So confidently I went about
My feeding chores one night.
That day, The Demon decided,
I’d make a tasty snack,
And while I was unlocking the corral gate,
He bit me, in the back.
I’ve been in a bad car wreck and had two kids,
And I cringe when I remember the pain of those nights,
But I plumb forgot all about childbirth,
From the searing pain of that bite.
I’m not real sure what happened next,
I just know I was totally un-composed,
‘Cause all of a sudden I was standing there,
With a handful of that Stud’s nose.
I had my thumb and fingers in his nostrils,
And I was squeezing with all my might,
And it must have had the desired effect,
‘Cause his eyes were filled with fright,
I backed him across the corral,
And right on in to a stall,
I figured it was my moment,
So, I began to squall...
I yelled at him like a wayward child,
I brought his legitimacy into question,
And all the while I shook his head,
Back and forth, like a piston.
I told him he’d be sorry,
And that I’d get even good,
Then one more time, just for good measure,
I disparaged his parent-hood.
At this point, my husband’s convinced,
I went entirely insane,
But that’s not true, or there’d have been
A changing of that horse’s name...
He would have become Alpo,
Or possibly Old Roy,
But I realized I had too much invested,
In the training of the old boy.
You see, I can be down right reasonable,
When given the time to calm down,
Especially when I remember I make all the decisions,
When my husband is not around.
So, now the Stud’s a Gelding,
And his whole attitude has changed,
‘Cause that same afternoon I called the Vet.,
And had his anatomy re-arranged.
Now on our place, there are a few rules,
But they’re just not that hard to follow,
Number one, is only make promises you will keep,
Don’t speak words that are hollow...
Number two, is clean your room,
And hang up your pajamas...
And number three, is use your head,
And never, for any reason, ever bite Mamma.
© 1996 Debra Coppinger Hill, All Rights Reserved
Waiting
Sweat-stained Stetson,
On the wall,
Muddy boots,
In the hall,
Stand and wait,
Sometimes they call,
Saddle-up and ride.
Spurs left hanging,
On a chair,
Saddle, oiled,
Over there,
Sit and wait,
With patient care,
Saddle-up and ride.
Slow and quiet,
Horses walk,
Softly nicker,
Hear them talk,
Endure and wait,
But never mock,
Saddle-up and ride.
Cowboy spirits,
In the night,
A haunting dance,
A lonesome sight,
Sway and wait,
For day’s first light,
Saddle-up and ride.
© 1997 Debra Coppinger Hill, All Rights Reserved
He was just a stove-up old cowboy,
Who only drank to ease the pain,
And he really didn’t need it,
Except when it was cold or gonna’ rain.
He’d spent his life bull-ridin’ ,
Until he had that wreck,
The bull threw him high, he came down hard,
And busted his legs all to heck.
He’d been my Daddy’s best friend,
Up until the day my Daddy died,
They rodeo’ed together,
At the funeral, he cried.
I’d see him every now and again,
At one or another rodeo,
He always had kind words for me,
Acted like he hated to see me go.
He gave me my first pony,
And a saddle with a dally horn,
They say he drove my Mamma to town,
The icy night that I was born.
I heard he’d talk about me,
And only had good things to say,
He never told me to my face,
But I knew that was just his way.
It came as a surprise to me,
When I heard that he was dead,
I couldn’t forget the last time I saw him,
Or the last thing he ever said...
“I wish you’d been my own son,
I’m proud to know ya’ as a man,
I wanted to say ‘I love ya’,
While I’m sober, and I can.”
Then he turned and strode off,
And his back seemed straight and strong,
I’m not real sure, but I’d have sworn
That limp of his was gone.
So, on those nights when I’m alone,
And hurt gets in my way,
I think of him and the guts it took,
To say what he had to say.
And now, when I see an old Cowboy,
A little drunk and broken down,
I stop and listen to the stories he tells,
‘Cause I know he’s been around.
And Somewhere, Jake is bull-ridin’,
Hittin’ in the eighties on every ride,
Young , and Free, and Wild again,
In that place, called The Other Side.
© 1997 Debra Coppinger Hill, All Rights Reserved.
BUFFALO DANCE
Rough, Untamed
Rush the draw
Primal energy
Passionate, Raw
Painted face
Feathered lance
So begins
The Buffalo Dance
Race the Thunder
Over the hill
Take the world
By sheer will
Free and Wild
Without care
Fearless screams
Split the air
Call it Destiny
Call it Chance
Drums beat out
The Buffalo Dance
Rise and Fall
The Liar’s Moon
Death and Existance
Come too soon
Earth is made
Of Give and Take
Past and Future
Are at stake
Lightning strikes
Evil askance
Spirits of Fire
Join the Buffalo Dance
Caution tossed
To the Wind
Now is a place
To begin
Turn the herd
Lead the pack
Valiant hearts
Blaze new tracks
Dreams are real
This is no trance
Life lived Full
Is the Buffalo Dance
© 1999 Debra Coppinger Hill, All Rights Reserved
I’ve seen their spirits ride at night,
In total darkness and clear moonlight,
Souls that search for what is right,
These men that they call Cowboys.
With open heart, determined face,
Eyes that see a far away place,
No eternal rest, 'til they run the race,
These men that they call Cowboys.
They search across history,
To return our civil gentility,
And the way things ought to be,
These men that they call Cowboys.
Nothing gets in their way,
Honor bound by what they say,
They pledge to bring it back one day,
These men that they call Cowboys.
Promise made, I over-hear,
From their mission, they’ll not veer,
It’s their duty to find, the Lost Frontier,
These men that they call Cowboys.
I know their voices from my dreams,
Calling me to come upstream,
Perhaps, my life, to redeem,
These men that they call Cowboys.
I must make haste and decide,
If on this quest, I will ride,
With them, I know, I can’t backslide,
These men that they call Cowboys.
I pause...consider...hesitate...
They ride on. It is too late.
They leave me with my own mistake,
These men that they call Cowboys.
Waking, as if, from a trance,
I cry out for one more chance,
But they have gone without a glance,
These men that they call Cowboys.
I realize they have come before,
Blazing trails, opening doors,
To Freedom, Salvation even more,
These men that they call Cowboys.
I know these men, I owe a debt,
I should have gone. It’s my regret.
To this day I seek them yet,
These men that they call Cowboys.
So I search for their spirits, late at night,
In total darkness and clear moonlight,
And pray for the chance to set things right,
With these men that they call Cowboys.
© 1999 Debra Coppinger Hill, All Rights Reserved/Music © 1999 Gerry "Casey " Allen, All Rights Reserved / " It’s Just Cowboy Music"
OUTLAW?
I knew his face from a poster,
That said he was wanted by the law,
It had little affect on me,
For I went by what I saw.
Two eyes of blue looked up at me,
So thin they looked like steel,
And a moustache so thick and bushy,
I wasn't sure if it was real.
Out on the plains of Kansas,
It is a hard and fast rule,
That to take in and hide a wanted man,
Are the actions of a fool.
But I'm not known for my reason,
Common sense is my only art,
And it told me I was safe,
Go on and follow my heart.
I took him to the old dugout,
Beside little creek,
Tended to his bullet wounds,
Nursed him while he was weak.
And I kept him there...a secret,
Made him strong and well,
An listened to the stories,
That he began to tell...
Of his life as a farmer,
Becoming a raider after the war,
He'd had a good reason once,
But couldn't remember "why" anymore.
When he tried to walk away,
The band refused to let him go,
They shot him and left him to die,
Where I found him in the cold.
I considered the sins of this man,
Waged them against my own,
Knew that for the right reasons,
My life would have taken a different tone.
And I knew there was no judging,
His past actions, or mine,
For his taking life, and my saving his,
Were both considered a crime.
So I hid him, and I'm not sorry,
For a time he was my own,
He told me once he loved me,
I was the closest he had to a home.
I procured a horse and a rifle,
Once he was mended enough to ride,
And politely refused his offer,
To join him by his side.
My last glimpse was the back of his hat,
As he dropped into the draw,
And I knew I'd not been wrong,
About the things I saw.
Deep inside those steel-blue eyes,
Lay a soul that had changed it's ways,
And his punishment would be in running,
Wanted...for the rest of his days.
And me, I'm still not repentant,
I'd do it all over again,
For sometimes Outlaws ain't evil,
Sometimes they're just men,
Who started out with good intentions,
And no matter what they may be,
The final call to judgement,
Won't come from you or me.
Because all of us are sinners,
By bad luck or circumstance,
And the only way out is common sense,
Prayer and a second chance.
So, pray with me for the Outlaw,
Cheer him on in his second try,
And start your prayer with the words,
"But for the Grace of God, there go I..."
© 2000 Debra Coppinger Hill, All Rights ReservedDebra Hill wrote: I based this latest piece on a line from a conversation with Texas Outlaw Poet TR Stephenson. He sent me a poem about an outlaw listening to his children say their prayers. I contacted him to tell him how wonderful and profound the sentiments of his poem were. In our conversation he said "Sometimes outlaws ain't evil men. Sometimes they're just men whose ideals went astray." I asked TR if I could use those words and he said to go for it. This is the result.
TR Stephenson, before he was an Honored Guest here, was kind enough to let us reprint the poem that inspired Debra Hill:
LISTENIN' TO THEIR PRAYERS
Prayers
I remember back when I was young, a long long time ago,
The many things that used to bring, me tears, or maybe joy,
The one example that I hold, the one I lovge the most,
Was listenin' every bedtime, to the prayin' of my boys.
"Daddy listen to me, I'm gonna talk to God,
And tell Him 'thanks' for givin' me these things",
They'd kneel on the cabin floor, things would quieten down,
In the softness of the twilight, their little voices ring.
"God please bless my Mama, she's in my sister's room,
And look out for my Pa, in the work he does for pay,"
Inside my heart would quiver, my little boys don't know,
I am a wanted outlaw, a bandit cold and grey.
It's funny how a man can be, two men at one time,
It makes a feller wonder, whats happenin' to his soul?
I was one man with my family, they sure knew me best,
I tried to give them love, and keep them from the cold.
The other man who rode alone, was sinister and dark,
There's no place in a bandit's heart, for anything but sin,
I kept my one face hidden, when dark deeds I did do,
The eyes that looked out at the world, hid the man within.
Time slid by like butter, came the day I had enough,
I packed away my bandit's mask, and my pistol too,
The people in the little town, never learned the truth,
They only knew the man, they'd often spoken to.
Now I am old, I live alone, my wife has gone away,
My children are all grown up now, and gone,
In thee twilight's gloamin', I watch the fireflies play,
And try to find the strength, to carry on.
The one thing that sustains me, a simple memory,
Of a time back in the past when life was fair,
The way my heart would swell with pride, a sweet soliloquy,
When I listened to my children, say their prayers.
TR Stephenson, The Texas Outlaw Poet
© TR Stephenson, All Rights Reserved
THE TRUTH
You pushed us down that dark cold trail,
Where the old and young ones cried,
And said the land was forever ours,
But that was only lies.
You slew us at the Washita,
Sand Creek and Wounded Knee,
Then gave us talking leaf promises,
That never came to be.
You tried to silence our Shamans,
But our Visions were worth the chance,
You chased us till we could not walk,
But you could not stop the dance.
You cannot kill the Power, the Earth,
No truer words were ever spoken,
For we know if we are the Center,
The Circle of life will not be broken.
So, when you come in search of us,
The sacred hills is where we are found,
Among the voices in the wind,
On this, our Holy Ground.
For you can slaughter our shadow-bodies,
Bind our wings so we can’t fly,
But you can’t capture our Spirit,
And you can’t make us die.
© 2000 Debra Coppinger Hill, All Rights Reserved
Debra tells us that though this poem is not strictly based on Cherokee incidents, it was written in honor of the Cherokee National Holiday.
WILD STICKHORSE REMUDA
Ponytails and blue jeans
Sat at Papaw's knee,
Watching as he whittled
On old branches from a tree.
And while he talked of cowboys
And big old Texas ranches,
He trimmed away the rough spots,
While I dreamed of pony dances.
A wild stick horse remuda
Began to run and play,
With every loving stroke,
As he peeled the bark away.
Using his "Old Timer"
And carving in my brand,
The best that he could find
And cut and shape with his own hand.
Now, each one of them was special,
And I felt I was too,
As they kicked up dust behind
This cowgirl buckaroo.
With reins of pink hair ribbon,
Shoe strings and baling twine,
There was "Buckin' Birch" and "Oakie,"
And "Ole Sticky" made of pine,
"Sassafras," and "Blackjack,"
"Willow," "Blaze," and "Scat,"
I never did corral 'em --
I just left 'em where they sat.
But next mornin', on the front porch,
'stead of roamin' wild and free,
They'd found their hitchin' rail,
‘cause Papaw lined 'em up for me.
Along our trails together
There were many lessons learned,
Like bein' a cowboy through and through
Is something that you earn
We'd partner up together,
And team up in cahoots,
Once he defied my Mama,
Bought me red cowboy boots.
And often, when I wondered
What to do on down the road,
He'd always tell me, "little girl,
When you get there you will know,"
Sometimes you have to let things go,
Sometimes you stand and fight,
And anything worth doin',
Is still worth doin' right.
With my wild stick horse remuda,
We rode the range for miles,
I knew I'd won my Papaw's heart
By the way he'd laugh and smile,
I still have his sweat-stained Stetson,
His boots, and his old knife,
Sometimes I take them out
Just to measure up my life.
And hold him closer to my heart,
And know I have to try,
To live up to the honor
Of the wonder-days gone by.
On my stick horse remuda,
I learned the cowboy way,
I’d give up everything I own
To ride with him today.
My wild stick horse remuda
Was quite the varied band,
Born and bred with me in mind
And trained by his own hand.
I’m longing for the legends,
And the way we used to roam,
With my wild stick horse remuda,
And the man that we called "Home."
Copyright© 2000 Debra Coppinger Hill, with editing and music by Devon Dawson
Based on the © 2000 poem “My Stick Horse Remuda” by Debra Coppinger HillIn loving memory of Ralph W. Gass...Papaw...who taught me who I was and gave me my love of the West.
My good buddy Devon Dawson the voice of Cowgirl Jesse on the Disney/Riders in the Sky Toy Story II music CD "Woody's Round-up" read it, liked it, and has adapted it as a song.
(In February, 2001 a Grammy was awarded to "Riders In the Sky" for their Disney recording, which also featured Debra Hill's good buddy and Fort Worth's own singin' yodelin' cowgirl, Devon Dawson, known as "Miss Devon" of "The Texas Trailhands," a popular cowboy swing band based in Fort Worth.)
This poem is included in our collection of
poems about Cowboy Dads and Granddads
MELANCHOLY COWBOY
I’m calling the Suicide Hotline,
This sad Cowboy poetry is getting me down,
I’m looking for a happy thought,
But one just can’t be found.
I’ve got a case of Cowboy Melancholy,
Depression of the deepest kind,
A malady that causes Cowboy Poets,
To think only in disparaging rhyme.
Perhaps you’ve not heard of it,
It’s a little talked about affliction,
That sneaks up rather slowly,
And attacks a Cowboy’s diction.
It starts with Cowboys talking,
About having to shoot their horse,
Or the death of the very last Longhorn,
And Cowboy life having run it’s course.
They tell about being stomped by a bronc,
About how women will break your heart,
Don’t say there won’t be no more Cowboys,
Please, just leave out that part.
Death, dismemberment, getting gored,
It makes me sorrowful and morose,
I tell you these gloomy Cowboy poems,
Boarder upon the verbose.
Is there nothing to say that’s amusing?
Or perhaps a bit light-hearted?
Is Cowboy life, nothing but strife,
And all about the dearly departed?
Does any one remember,
When Cowboy poetry was fun?
I tell you we got us a Crisis !
Quick ! Someone call COW-1-1 !!!
We need some recitation resuscitation,
If Cowboy poetry we are to save,
Go easy on that couplet verse,
About Cowboys in unmarked graves.
Hook those paddles to our pencils,
And everyone stand clear,
Shock the daylights out of us,
Till we write Cowboy poetry delightful to hear.
I vote we form a support group,
With a name somewhat synonymous,
A two-step Western program of sorts,
And call it Cowboy Poets Anonymous.
I suppose I could surrender to the urge,
Do just one poem of despondent refrain,
But I took the oath, and from this day on,
From this Cowboy Curse I’ll try to abstain.
" Hi, my name is ________, (fill in the blank!)
and I’m a Cowboy Poet... "
Copyright © 1999 Debra Coppinger Hill & Casey Allen All Rights Reserved
This one is about a trip back to the "old home place." Everything had
changed, but then, nothing had...because the memories were still the same,
no matter what.
Dirt Road
The traffic flies by
At a fast-paced clip
They say on a warm day
It's a nice little trip
The county came in
And smoothed out the road
Past the porch where we sat
And learned of "The Code"In my mind I still see him
Though he is long gone
And I still hear the words
To his old Cowboy songs
He spoke of the cow trails
And called them by name
Said the dust all around us
Was one and the same.
He told us the stories
Of the days that were past
We looked to the future
Swore we'd make them last
We rode our stick ponies
And we rounded up strays
And we knew we'd be Cowboys
For all of our days.
The buildings stand empty
A testimony to time
But they're filled with the dreams
That I still call mine
You can blacktop a road
But they will always be there
Those dust covered memories
That hang in the air.
They've paved the dirt road
That rolls by the farm
Where we laughed and played Cowboy
In the fields and the barn
And we learned where we came from
And who we could be
And the dust of that dirt road
Is still part of me.
Copyright © 2001 Debra Coppinger Hill All Rights Reserved
Sometimes, if we are very lucky, we get to work with someone who mirrors our own thoughts so well that when a piece is finished, we are not sure who
wrote what line. Casey Allen has a great talent for ideas for poems. He
sent this to me as a story. By noon, it was a poem. By the end of the day
it was a song. The lyric form is very bluegrass. I am honored to share this
piece with him.
Waiting for the Light
It's quiet as he rises,
Makes his way to the kitchen,
Builds a pot of coffee,
In the dark before the morn.
Stands on the back porch,
Looks upon his Cowboy Kingdom,
And savors the perfect Stillness
As a brand new day is born.He moves out to the corral,
To his throne upon the top rail,
Seats himself to where
He can look off towards the east.
He contemplates the North Star,
Circled by the big dipper,
Cowboy clock, keeping track
While all the world's asleepHe can see the shapes of cattle,
In the tallgrass of the pasture,
A sliver of a moon
Casting shadows on the ground.
Hears the nightbird call,
As the wind begins to stir,
And the soft talking of horses
As they begin to move around.He'll watch the stars awhile,
Pick out the constellations,
Wonders what it's like
To ride the Milky Way.
And bear a silent witness,
To this solitary moment,
Say a thankful prayer
As the East begins to gray.Streaks of light are moving,
Dancing bright across the sky,
He feels a little sadness
At the dimming of the stars.
There's Something holy in the darkness,
That reveals a sacred promise,
That binds us to the earth,
And reminds us who we are.His cup of coffee finished,
He slides down from the top rail,
Feels fortunate and privileged
To be part of the dawn.
He smiles into the fading night
And walks back to the cabin,
Without a doubt he knows
This is just where he belongs.It's the best part of the day,
Sitting in the darkness,
Knowing in your heart
That all is right.
The best part of the day,
Sitting in the darkness,
Waiting for the morning
And the light.Copyright © Casey Allen and Debra Coppinger Hill,
May 23, 2001, All Rights Reserved
I started this one in 1998 and never finished it. I guess I never really
understood it until recently. I've spent a lot of time lately, "hidin' out
in the barn", and I fully intend to spend a lot more!
Barn Therapy
I go hide out in the barn sometimes,
Just to take a small vacation,
From the telephone and the fax machine,
And my all too close relations.Hiding out in the barn,
Sets my mind at ease.
I watch the chickens, sit on the hay,
And listen to the breeze.I learn a lot just sitting there,
Observing the things I see.
And hiding out in the barn,
I cheaper than therapy.
I can psycho-analyze my id,
Get in touch with my inner self,
Meditate and mediate,
And improve my mental health.
There are times,
(I'm not ashamed to say),
I go hide out there,
For the better part of the day.
There's much to be said,
For hiding out,
I suddenly understand,
What life's all about.
I leave the barn,
Refreshed and renewed,
My problems are minimal,
And my tensions subdued.
I know that I am lucky,
To have found the key,
To putting my world in order,
And finding perfect tranquility.
So if you come looking for me,
I'll be where simple things hold real charm,
Getting a dose of therapy,
Hiding out, in the barn.Copyright © 1998 Debra Coppinger Hill, All Rights Reserved
Cowboys don't fear the coyote,
He just yips and yowls.
But the wolf is another story,
Your blood chills when he howls.
And a panther, will stalk you,
Even in the dark.
And a bear, when he catches you,
Will tear you clear apart.
The best thing about a snake bite,
Is it kills you pretty quick.
And those "under a rock critters,
Their bite will make you deathly sick.
But the most vicious of the critters,
The one every Cowboy fears,
Inflicts a type of torture.
That can leave grown men in tears.
With a bite so excruciating,
It will make you wish you was dead,
And there's nothing more terrifying,
Than when it raises it's ugly head.
It attacks without a warning,
It's cold-hearted and just plain mean.
It considers all men prey,
And will bite any one that seen.
The suffering, is lingering,
And to this very day,
There's no cure or medication,
That can take the pain away.
It's just the size of a pin point,
And it don't get much bigger,
But I've seen Cowboys brought to their knees,
By the savage bite, of the Chigger.
Copyright © Debra Coppinger Hill 1996 All Rights Reserved.
David always tells me I don't write about the things that Cowboys are afraid
of. So, I dedicate this to him and his one real fear. ("Nothing worse than
an enemy you can't see.") Anyone who has spent any time in an Oklahoma hay field will appreciate it.
The Edge
"It will be a Long-day.",
You would say, as you checked the chinch,
And with that, I would know,
Not to expect you,
Until darkness had begun.
Into the tall grass
You would ride.
And I, left here,
Set the cabin straight,
And fed and watered and gathered eggs.
On the Long-days,
We lived in two worlds.
Yours, an open prairie covered in cattle.
Mine, a homestead covered in dust.
I often wondered,
If the same wind that so tormented me,
Was the same wind
That you spoke of as magical.
I did not love this world then,
I only loved you,
And it was you,
And you alone,
Who made it bearable.
On the Long-days,
Knowing you would come back
Tired, yet satisfied and pleased,
I wrote the letters to the family,
And lied about the love
I had for this place.
Then, you did not ride in.
They found the broken shell of you,
The horse dead too,
Where you shot it to save it's suffering,
Never mind that you suffered also.
Family and friends tell me
That this place id too much for me alone.
But, I cannot...and will not leave.
This place owes me your spirit.
And I will wait here,
Until it comes in the wind
And pushes the dust away.
Until it picks me up,
And dances me across the prairie,
And into your arms...
At the Edge of the darkness,
Where you ride,
At the end,
Of a Long-day.
Copyright© 1998 Debra Coppinger Hill All Rights Reserved
Best Ride I Ever Had
The story starts with
"The Best Ride I ever had..."
And comes from a fellow,
Who is working-cowboy clad.And the story he will tell you,
Is of a ride he considered a test,
A challenge between man and beast,
When a man has to do his best."Cause any less would find him,
Broken or dead on the arena floor,
And sometimes the point ain't about winning,
the final time, or judge's score.And the ride that he talks about,
From time to time may not be the same,
For each one has it's bits of glory,
Satisfaction, or moment of fame.The fact that he's done it,
Will be the source of pride,
And what it all boils down to,
Is the simple thrill of the ride.It's about the joy of the moment,
And how it has to be earned,
By giving all you've got,
Even if you get burned.So, when a Cowboy starts a story with,
"The best ride I ever had..."
Understand this is a part of him,
Not some craze or fleeting fad."Cause it's not the winning or losing,
It's a thing we can't do without,
It's the best ride any of us ever get,
It's Living we're talking about!
Copyright © 2000 Debra Coppinger Hill All Rights Reserved
For my buddies Jay Snider & Kevin Davis.
Written while sitting in the studio listening to them swap tales and
laughter. May 3, 2000
It's an awe-inspiring experience, the White Sands of New Mexico. I wish
everyone could stand in this magical place at least once. The photos were all taken within a one hour drive. Amazing place, New Mexico.
New Mexico
The first time that you see her, She will steal your soul away,
And replace it with a being of her own,
Her white sands will glisten, underneath turquoise skies,
And make your heart always long, for New Mexico.
There is magic in her mountains, secrets in her sage,
A special kind of wisdom, that only comes with age.
The music of her canyons, will echo and roll,
And fill your life with desire, for New Mexico.
She'll captivate your spirit, keep it in possession there,
No matter where you are, you smell cedar in the air.
The song she sings you, comes from long ago,
And haunts you with a passion, for New Mexico.
You understand the stillness, of a desert afternoon,
You're enchanted by the beauty, of yucca in bloom,
While you wonder at the colors, transformed by the sun's glow,
Your thoughts are of being, in New Mexico.
Voices of the past, warriors and pioneers,
Urge you with their stories, of laughter and tears.
An unsettled feeling, is all you have to show,
As you roam familiar trails, back to New Mexico.
Some will call her savage, some will call her wild,
In ever fleeting shadows, she remains but a child.
This boldness of character is restless and untamed,
Gentled only by The Power, that takes on many names.
You'll hear her in the night sometimes, when Westward breezes blow,
And to fill that empty feeling, you know you have to go,
For once you hold her in your eyes, nothing else can make you whole,
And you're never really home again, until you're in New Mexico.
Copyright © 1999 Debra Coppinger Hill, All Rights Reserved
Awards and Publications
Academy of Western Artists Top Five
Best Cowboy Poet (Female) 2001
Best Cowboy Poetry Cassettes 1998
Academy of Western Artists Top Ten
Best Female Poet 1999, 2000, 2001
International Charley Russell Western Heritage Assn.
Commission of Director Promotions & Publicity '99, 2000, 2001
Board member 2001JEDA Production for PBS "Cowboy Corral"
Episodes #104 & #108
Gibbs-Smith Elko Companion Series Book
"Cowgirl Poetry One Hundred Years of Ridin' and Rhymin'"
Southwest Whispers
"Cowboys Are Part Human"
Love of the West (loveofthewest.com)
Appointment to the Advisory Board as Western Culture Consultant.
Honored Guest on CowboyPoetry.com
(www.cowboypoetry.com)
Canadian Cowboy Country
( Regular Featured Editorial Column)
American Cowboy Magazine (Poetry Feature)
Just released! Honored Guest Debra Coppinger Hill's new CD, Common Sense, Men and Horses, a collection of her Western poetry and songs, with pieces co-written with Marvin Southards and G. Casey Allen. Recorded at Bethel Sound in Graham, Alabama, it includes performances by Debra, as well as Doc Stovall (co-writer on two songs), Jerry Warren, Jean Prescott (Western Singer of the State of Texas) and Devon Dawson (the singing voice of Cowgirl Jesse of Disney's Toy Story II music CD). With background music by Daniel Addison, Doc Stovall, Rich O'Brien (courtesy of Western Jubilee Recording Co.) and the Cowtown Opry Buckaroos, this pleasant mix of music and poetry has already captured the attention of radio stations in Canada, Italy and the United States.
The album is available online at Silver Creek Music and through Old Yellow Slicker Productions at 25552 E. 320 Road, Chelsea, Oklahoma 74016, 918-789-5288. CDs retail for $15.00 and cassettes for $10, with wholesale pricing available to retail outlets. Also available is Debra's AWA Top Five album "Cattle Calls...", which has been re-mastered on CD and features music by Tim Graham and Gina DeLaune, Cowboys Forever and yodeling by Devon Dawson.
And it's:
Page 3 of Debra Coppinger Hill's poetry, Page 3, with the title track and track list with links to other poems from her CD, Common Sense, Men and Horses is here.
G. Casey Allen ~ Catherine Lilbit Devine ~ Debra Coppinger Hill ~ Jeff StreebyFrom Armagh to ArizonaWhispers of the West to Teach Western Poetry and Musicat the Gerard Manley Hopkins Institute, IrelandWhispers of the West is pleased to announce that our members, Catherine Lilbit Devine, Debra Coppinger Hill, Jeff Streeby and G. Casey Allen, have been invited by the Gerard Manley Hopkins Institute in Monasterevin, County Kildare, Ireland as instructors at the International Summer School. They will be educating international students on the history and culture of the American West through poetry, stories and song. This world-renowned program hosts student and instructors from around the world in a celebration of cultural diversity.
Members of Whispers were selected based on their collective experiences and extensive knowledge of Western Poetry and History. Composed of professional educators, award winning poets, musicians and published authors, Whispers members live the history and culture of the American West on a daily basis. An hour or an evening spent with the Whispers crew leaves a lasting memory.Catherine Lilbit Devine, a native Tucsonan, draws upon her roots in the desert southwest and her life long passion for Rodeo to paint verbal pictures that draw in her audience and make them wish they could stay forever. As an author of children's books she is popular with the local schools and has presented children's programs across North America and Europe.
Texas to Montana Cowboy Jeff Streeby , of Yucaipa, California has a keen eye for historical detail, which he uses to bring to life the interred residents in his book Sunday Creek. An Advanced Placement Language teacher, his passion for education and his exceptional understanding of language and meter make his work a pleasure to read.
Debra Coppinger Hill, of Chelsea, Oklahoma lends a different perspective to Western poetry with her eloquent retellings of her daily work running the 4DH Foundation Quarter Horse Ranch and recollections from her childhood. An Academy of Western Artists Will Rogers Award winner she has
the ability to bring the audience along as she weaves a lyric tapestry of the traditions and culture of her Cowboy and Cherokee/Irish roots.G. Casey Allen of Olathe, Kansas brings a thousand years of memories to the poetry and music that he writes and sings. He pulls from a rich bounty of family history, his Irish heritage and a love of the West, both Cowboy and Native American, and takes the audience on a rollicking journey.
In addition to teaching at the Gerard Manley Hopkins Institute, members of Whispers will be performing Western Poetry and Music throughout Ireland, including the Aran Islands from July 16 - Aug 1, 2005. They will also be attending classes at the institute instructed by internationally known poets and writers.
Established in 1987, the Institute honors the poetry of the 1800s Jesuit poet Gerard Manley Hopkins. His poetry and verse are revered among poets as classic. Hosted each year in July, the Summer School has been deemed the best literary event in Ireland, according to the Oxford Companion to Irish Literature.
Whispers of the West is available for performances and to present writing seminars. Members are available as a group and on an individual basis. To book the group or a performer please contact whisperswest@yahoo.com or call Catherine at 520-548-3191 or 520-298-7639. For more information and to read some of the member's poetry you can visit our web site at http://www.whisperswest.com
Contacting Debra Coppinger Hill
Debra and her partners are happy to tailor a show to fit your budget. She, the Outriders, Yellow Slicker Productions & their Associate groups can provide you with a two person show or a group of performers.
For tapes, bookings or information:
Debra Coppinger Hill
Old Yellow Slicker Productions
25552 E. 320 Rd., Chelsea, Ok. 74016-9802
Ph/Fax 918-789-5288
E-mail: dhillcowboypoet@yahoo.com
Debra Hill's ranch site features the horses they have for sale and has other links of interest: http://www.4dhranch.com/
Read Debra Hill's tribute to T. R. Stephenson, Gone to the Mountains
and her prose tribute to Larry McWhorter, A Blessing in the Heat
You can read more of Debra's poetry at The Wyoming Companion:
and here at www.cowboys-n-cowgirls.com
This is page 1 of Debra Coppinger Hill's poetry
Page 2 is here and
Page 3, with the title track and track list with links to other poems from her CD,
Common Sense, Men and Horses is here .
The BAR-D Roundup | Cowboy Poetry Week
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