My ol’ man was a soldier
back in WWII.
My mom was a nurse on a hospital ship
In that same ol’ big war, too.
I remember, as a kid, how they hung out the flag
On a special day or two,
But I was too young to really understand
About that ol’ red, white and blue.
So they taught me how to put my hand on my heart
When the flag passed by in review.
And to take off my hat as a sign of respect
For the things that flag could do.
And that every little thing she stood for
Really stood for me and you.
And hey, every day’s the Fourth of July
For that ol’ red, white and blue.
Chorus
Every day’s the Fourth of July
For that ol’ red, white and blue.
A tie that binds, a spirit that shines
And it shines the whole year through.
And every little thing she stands for
Really stands for me and you,
Hey, every day’s the Fourth of July
For that ol’ red, white and blue.
Well, both of my folks are gone now,
That’s just the way it goes.
You’re here for a while, a tear and a smile,
They left me more than heaven knows.
And all those little thing they stood for
They did ‘em for me and you
And hey, every day’s the Fourth of July
For that ol’ red, white and blue.
Chorus
© 2001, DW Groethe, from Tales
from West River
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written
permission.
Just Like a Chinook
She come on strong
and warm
and totally unexpected.
Just like
a chinook
during one a' them
long
hard
spine cracking winters
when even the stones groan.
My spirit quivered.
Been a while.
You bury things deep
in a spell like that
and time
takes time
to thaw feelin's
froze deep as all that.
Quick.
Like a wink.
A brief flurry of dancin'
hand grabbin' romancin'
that settles your heart into spring.
And then's gone.
And after one a' them passages
of short
hollow gut feelin's
winter come back
and then softened
like new fallen snow.
Spring snow.
And I knew that I'd make it.
All quite unexpected.
Just like a chinook.
© 2005, DW Groethe, from
West River Waltz
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written
permission.
This poem is included in our
Cowboy Love Poetry collection
The Bunny
Poem
Drivin' through the midnight
hour
Clippin' down the trail,
We was headin' back from Utah
On the last leg of 'r tale.
Twenty hours ridin' hard
From down the ol' southwest
We was more'n plenty tired
An' 'r brains was cravin' rest.
Then we finally hit the Black Hills
An' the end was nigh in sight
So we caught 'rselves a second wind
An' flew back in the night.
Now from Belle Fourche up to Bowman
Is a mighty lonesome haul.
Ain't much to keep you comp'ny
Sides that hauntin' coyote's call.
The moon was full upon us
An' the prairie was aglow
When out the corner of my vision
Come a scene that froze my soul.
There was bunnies in the ditches,
'Neath the sagebrush, in the air.
There was millions there was billions
There was bunnies everywhere.
Them beady little eyeballs
Was a glarin' mean an' hard.
I could smell the trouble brewin'
When the first one rammed the car.
Suicidal little buggers
Was on a lemming kick!
I thought even for a bunny
This is gittin' perty sick!
They careened out on the highway
Not a care for life an' limb.
We was turnin' furry bunnies
Into prairie cherubim.
They was wrapped around the axles,
They was gummed up in the tires,
Parts was flipped up on the engine
On the manifolds an' wires!
Others wacked against the floor boards
After kissin' that ol' bumper,
Now I know why Disney called ol'
Bambi's bunny buddy Thumper!
It was bowlin' in the badlands
With a strike at every throw.
A bunny Armageddon
In a P. T. Barnum show!
'Til at last they started thinnin' down
As Ludlow slipped away
An' we crossed that North Dakota line
In one bunged up Chevrolet.
I breathed an everlastin' sigh
A knowin' that from here
All's we had to worry 'bout
Was open range an' deer.
© 2005, DW Groethe, from
West River Waltz
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written
permission.
Pockets and Pens
The one hard truth of
pockets is,
you never have enough.
Wallet, keys and gadgets.
there's no end to all the stuff
you cram into your britches,
your shirt and hat and vest.
You think you're finally settled
when life puts you to the test.
Let's say you're goin'
fencin'
need some place for the pliers,
a pocket for the staples,
one for clips, for hangin' wires.
You've got a bit of 'lectric
that needs some checkin', too,
so a handful of them doodads
goes inside your kangaroo,
Pretty soon you're lookin'
like you've latched some new disease
makes you lumpy as the dickens
from your nipples to your knees
And pens?......Are just big
pockets.
Let's figure combinations,
you find yourself confronted
with, in weanin' computations.
Heifers that are keepers,
heifers sold, an' heaven knows
the steers'll need a big one,
a small for dinks an' those
that look a little ganted.
An' the cows, you've got a few,
you've should've sold in April,
now, what you gonna do?
Can't put 'em in the pole
barn,
'cause the buyer just wants black,
so, you planned it for the colors,
now, you're somewhat took a-back.
'cause you figure you'll be runnin'
maybe two or three pens shy,
an' you catch yourself a-wondrin'
just a sorry minute, why
it ain't goin' like you
worked it
in your mind. It's just the pits.
It's the kind of aggravation
makes you wanna call it quits.
You think it would be simple.
Not like you're buildin' rockets.
But there's nothin' simple 'bout it,
when you're workin' pens an' pockets.
© 2006, DW Groethe
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written
permission.
A Cowboy's
Education
A cowboy's education,
purty much, was trial an' error.
For most, the thought of schoolin'
balked their hearts in abject terror.
But you rarely found a rider,
or a nighthawk or a cook
That couldn't lose himself inside
a good, old fashioned book.
If he weren't readin', he was read to,
a-whilin' away his time,
In volumes chock with learnin',
high adventure, muse an' rhyme.
Beat an' weathered, as their riders,
they trailed far, an' then,
From saddlebag to bunkhouse
they'd make the rounds, again.
Which gets me kinda fig'rin',
them old cowboys weren't no fools.
Got themselves an education
'thout goin' to any schools.
© 2006, DW Groethe
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written
permission.
DW tells
us this poem was inspired by the Rural Library Project,
which is an important part of
Cowboy Poetry
Week.
My Father's
Horses
It must've been a day
for peace an' reverie
When my father took a pencil in his hand
an' scribed upon his notebook,
all the horses that he'd had
when growin' up in West Dakota land.
I can see him sittin', thoughtful,
soft smile in his eyes,
As the ponies pranced before him, once again.
Then he jotted each one down,
with a slow an' careful hand.
Sometimes, horses, can count right up with kin.
Tobe, Frank an' Muggins,
Daisy I an' Daisy II,
(his mem'ry felt a breeze that stirred their manes.)
Charlie, Chub an' Pearl
found their way up to the front
an' back once more upon the dusty plains.
Prince I an' II an' Mike
come lopin' lightly into view,
he penned their mem'ries, gentle on the page...
a-waitin' an' a thinkin',
he was missin'...just a few
when Queen an' May neared, nickerin' thru the sage.
An' finally, down the draw,
come Thunder, Buck an' Bill
a'flyin' like the wind an' they was one.
then he eased back in his chair,
contemplatin' all that's there,
his gatherin' of the old bunch was all done.
Yeah...it must've been a day
of peace an' reverie,
in his office, at a desk of metal gray,
when the ol' man made a tally
a-gatherin' up his cavvy,
One last time, a-fore they slipped away.
© 2007, DW Groethe
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written
permission.
DW comments: "Among the many things I inherited from my father
was a box of items from his office desk. In it there was a handful
of pens and pencils and a small pocket notebook (stapled, not
spiral-bound). On the first page he'd written the names of sixteen
horses...the horses he'd grown up with back in the twenties and
thirties. I wish I could remember all the stories he had about them.
As it is, all I have is a page in an old worn notebook and a poem
to honor their memories."
Let Me Tell You ‘bout
Weanin’
Let me tell you ‘bout weanin’
and the severin’ of ties
and them cows with their
bellerin’ lips fulla lies.
They’ll hang on that gate
for a day
maybe two
creatin’ a ruckusin’
hullabaloo.
Then on a sudden
no reason no rhyme
they stroll away thinkin’,
“Hell, that calf ain’t mine.”
And never again so much utter a
moo
bawler a holler or mutter
an oo.
They go back to grazin’ and
lollin’ around
bovinely considerin’
whatever’s profound.
If the city’s your home range
You’d bet this ain’t
true.
But that’s what them cows, come
weanin’ time, do.
© 2005, DW Groethe, from
West River Waltz
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written
permission.
When There's Frost Upon the Ponies
When there's frost upon the
ponies
an' snow drift on the ground,
an' that yeller sun comes creepin'
through the cedars all around,
a feller gets to thinkin'
maybe winter ain't so bad,
starts shuckin' off the mem'ries
of the blizzards that we've had.
The squeakin' an' the crunchin'
of yer boots on morning snow,
when dawn's a-risin' easy,
an ol' time's a movin' slow,
makes a feller sorta settled
in the choices that he's made.
How he coulda wandered elsewhere,
now, he's mighty glad he stayed.
Most folks don't understand it,
but he knows just what he's found...
when there's frost upon the ponies
an' snow drift on the ground,
an' that yeller sun comes creepin'
through the cedars all around.
© 2008, DW Groethe
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written
permission.
Rain
The workin' crew was ready,
first calf heifers gathered in,
we'd sorted off their youn'ns
time for brandin' to begin.
The ropers had their ponies
all decked out an' set to go,
cajone cutters, wrestlers,
vaccinators...gear in tow.
Things was goin' smooth as
honeyed words on whisky lips
till halfway through the brandin'
someone noticed that the drips
of water that was hustlin'
from 'r hats an' to the ground
wasn't beads of sweat at all,
it was drizzlin' all around.
Now, a little bitty sprinkle
won't up an' put a stop
to a crew that's used to workin'
ankle deep in dust 'er slop.
But a critter drug thru mud
you can't hardly brand at all,
so, figgerin' for the worst
we asked the boss, "Hey, what's yer call?"
He pondered for a minute,
contemplatin' what to do,
said "If we run 'em in the shed
we can see this brandin' thru."
The problem with the shed was
it was filled with tons of stuff...
hayin' stuff an' tractor stuff
twice the stuff as that's enough!
The calves were on a heyday
hidin' ever' where in sight.
The crew was on the prowl
an' the calves was on the fight.
We was brandin' by the balers,
we was brandin' 'neath the rake,
we was brandin' anywheres
that ol' brandin' iron 'ld take.
It took a while but fin'lly
when the chaos was all done
the boss, he made a tally
an' we hadn't missed a one.
For all the consternation
not a word was said in vain,
cause cowboys in this country
never, ever cuss the rain.
© 2007, DW Groethe, from
My Father's Horses
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written
permission.
Lady Luck Takes a Break
He reached to grab his keys,
the keys inside his pocket,
the pocket that was empty
caught him somewhat unawares.
He stared in through the
window,
the window of the pickup,
the pickup he'd just driven
twenty miles, haulin' pairs.
Sittin' neat upon the seat,
the seat beyond the door,
the door he's somehow locked up,
lay his only ticket home.
A mist began to sprinkle,
the sprinkle turned to rain,
the rain became a torrent
down upon his Stetson dome.
He let a little sigh,
a sigh that reached his boots,
the boots that started trudgin'
one long lonesome walk back home.
© 2009, DW Groethe
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written
permission.
Star Cavvy
Somewhere along the line,
after years of sleepin' out,
a-layin', lookin' from his soogan bed,
he got to seein' patterns,
in the way the stars were set,
a-studyin' the Heavens o'er his head.
One outfit to the north,
was a big ol' letter M.
His first pony'd wore that brand up till it died.
An' a square, not too far off,
was that blockhead roan he'd rode
up from Texas...fin'lly swapped its on'ry hide.
High on the milky river
flowin' through the cosmos bright,
was a cavvy shaped exactly like a cross.
The gal who'd stole his heart
had a sorrel with that mark...
Ahh...a fella shouldn't dwell too much on loss.
His eyes would roam the meadows
in the boundless prairie skies,
recallin' damn near ever'thing he knowed.
Some was fam'ly, some was folks
that he met along the trail,
but mostly, it was horses that he'd rode.
Horses in the heavens
ever'where he set his eyes,
a-runnin' free an' wild, without a care.
Endless pastures in the stars
kept him warm in company,
knowin', one day, he'd be with 'em, way up there.
© 2009, DW Groethe
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written
permission.
DW comments
:
There's no one specific "inspired moment" behind the poem.
It's an amalgam of moments and memories of nights spent under the
stars. Our saddle club has a wagon train/trail ride every year on
Labor Day weekend. I usually pitch my outfit somewhere on the far
reaches of night camp so when I tire of the the crowd I can wander
off and be alone with the night sky. The wagon train is one of my
favorite sources for inspiration. When it all falls together it
feels like a hundred years gone.
