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JOE MOON
 Bemidji, Minnesota
About Joe Moon

 

 

Dreamin


A couple of bums are hanging out
in the Malamute saloon.

The stampede kid's got arthritis
he can no longer play a tune.

Dangerous Dan got married
to the lady known as Lou.

Old Danny boy got lucky
at least he thinks its true.

They got a couple of youngn's
and they sure think its great.

Both is teachin' Sunday school
In the lower forty-eight.

I set here in the corner
by a mossy brass spittoon.

Dreamin' of days o' adventure
and the lonely call of the loon.

How we mushed them frisky huskies
and panned in the creeks for gold.

What else is left for a sourdough
that somehow just got old?

2004, Joe Moon 
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Joe told us that this tribute to Robert Service "... was also a spoof on my younger brother who lives in Alaska, trying to prove he is younger than his 68 years."

 

Drought

When the wind is like a furnace,
The sun hangs brazen in the sky.
Cows are licking at the mud,
'Cause the water hole is dry.

When dust drifts like winter snow,
While it stings your face like sleet.
Cows must walk miles and miles,
Just to find a blade to eat.

When the creeks are running empty,
And the wells are going dry.
That's when you'll see tough cowboys
Ride with teardrops in their eyes.

2004, Joe Moon 
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Joe told us: The reason I wrought "Drought" was out of sympathy for my old friends and acquaintances who are ranching in Wyoming.  And for all folks everywhere whose agriculture pursuits have been curtailed by "Ma Nature" when she decides to withhold the rain and snow, moisture,  the life blood of agriculture.

I was born and raised in the Gillette, Rozet, Moorcroft, and Sundance area of Wyoming.  While I was coming up, we had a few droughts, but nothing like the 5 year, going on 6,  they are having there now, in my memory.

My folks talked about the dust bowl years.  My father Albert R. "Russ" Moon told of planting wheat on a section of land he owned about a mile out of Roset 3 years in a row and it never even sprouted.

This poem is dedicated to folks like him, both past, present, and future, who love the ranching way of life and know the heartbreak of that same life style.


You Want To Be a Cowboy?

You want to be a cowboy?
That what I heard you say?

Well these old ears is stuffy,
N' I'us lookin' t'other way.

Son it ain't like them dime novels.
About who's the fastest gun.

It's eatin' dust, 'n heat, 'n cold.
All work, 'n not much fun.

It's ridin' mean dumb horses.
While you're chasin' dumber cows.

It's eatin dirt, and burnin' hair.
'N dippin' for the louse.

It's not stradllin' your favorite pony,
Throughout the livelong day.

It's buildin' fence 'n pullin wells.
It's cuttin' and stackin' hay.

It's gettin lost in a blizzard.
'N it's eatin' wormy chuck.

'N it's doin it a with a smile son,
Sayin', "Powder River let'er buck!"

Meanin' no matter how tough it gets,
you're here to make a stand.

If you'll ride, come hell or breakfast,
Then you've the makin's of a hand.

1989, J. E. Moon
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Rough String Rider

I believe I've rode em all boys,
where ever ponies run.
'Twas on the Matador in Texas,
that I met the Zebra Dun.
I had hired onto the wagon
for beef gather in the fall.
The wagon boss said a special string
would be at my beck and call.
Said they was all experienced,
on the circle, and the hold.
That if I set 'em like a rider
they'd all do what was told.
My next string was in Montana
a little closer to my home.
I run into a pig eyed stud,
they'd called Straw Berry Roan.
in the OW rough string,
that ol' Eddy said was mine.
He bucked in the same set of tracks.
Like he was markin' time.
Some where up near Alaska,
with the midnight sun like noon.
I saddled up a little mare,
They called the Saskatoon.
She sure weren't ordinary,
by them rollers 'n white eyes.
Every time she left the ground.
showed her belly to the sky.
There was Midnight in Arizona,
out on the old YK.
Steamboat in Nebraska,
I tried for one days pay.
Then on down to Nevada,
I met the Piebald Paint.
He left me settin' in the air
Like a descendin' saint.
None of them was pretty rides.
I'll be the first to say.
If you're ten miles from the wagon
you do your best to stay.
Right up there in the middle,
With one leg on each side.
Prayin' that the saddle stays
when they starts to roll their hide.
One hand on the reins boy's
the nubbin's in a clinch.
'n them spurs aint a reachin' high
cause I wove them in the cinch.
I remember every one boys,
every day with care.
I can feel each jump
n' curlykew here on my rockin' chair.

1989, J. E. Moon
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



About Joe Moon:

I was raised up in Wyoming on various cattle ranches, from Harris Simpson Cattle Company, outside of Gillette, to the time I was a 17 year old rough string rider for the OW (Kendrick Cattle Company out of Sheridan, Wyoming).  From Wyoming I spent 12 years in the United States Marine Corps.  While there I married the love of my life, Sharon Moffit.  We have been a loving couple for 49 years as of May 15, 2004.

 


 

 

 

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