NORM ROURKE
Stone Bluff Ranch
Beggs, Oklahoma
About Norm Rourke
Norm Rourke's web site
Luther Morse
They say they're gone: the cowboys,
They say their day is past,
They say technology is the thing
That's moving this world so fast.
That may be so for city folk,
Who never sat a horse,
Or drove a herd of stubborn steers
Like old man Luther Morse.
He worked his ranch, the Diamond M,
A spread down in New Mexico,
With no cell phones or e mails
And no fancy clothes for show.
T'was a tough old bird; hard as nails,
Worked long days without complaint,
He was honest and fair and always true,
And had no patience with them that ain't.
Old man Morse was a friend of mine,
He taught me to ride and rope,
He taught me being a cowboy,
Was the best anyone could hope.
I miss his weathered face,
With lines etched so deep,
His sweat stained hat and worn out boots,
And eyes that never seemed to sleep.
I grew to love that crusty old man,
Who treated me like a son,
And the more I tried to please him,
He made me feel like one.
It's been twenty years now since he left,
The ranch has been sold away,
But I've got a parcel of that land,
As a reminder of those good old days.
I'll keep it sacred for what it meant:
Of brandings and roundups and cowboys on horse,
As a legacy to the past and old man Luther Morse.© Norm Rourke
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.This poem appears in the May, 2004 edition of Western Horseman
Anazazi
They were old, from a time before,
When creatures walked along the shore
Of rivers gone to desert sand,
And emptiness filled a barren land.
Their cities thrived within the walls,
Of canyons high where eagles call,
A thousand years were but a day,
Before it ended and went away.
For unknown reasons we ne'er shall know,
They left their homes in winter's snow.
Yet still their songs can oft be heard,
The Old Ones singing in ancient words.© Norm Rourke
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Lost Love
They called him Juan the Mexican,
They said he rode with Pancho on his daring Columbus raid,
They said he was a horseman and of no man was afraid.
I found him in Los Pintos; a quiet life he led,
No more the feared pistolero, a bookish man instead.
His hair was white, a drooping moustache too,
A weathered face that told of years,
And eyes still dark and true.
"I spend my time with these books,"
He said will self-made pride,
"I find in them a better life, one I long denied."
Yet in his voice I sensed a need beyond the printed page,
Of something long forgot with the passing of the age.
Perhaps a love he once knew when he was young and bold,
A love he let slip away and now he was too old.
He turned away to hide the tears and walked toward the door,
Then I saw the open book and the words, mi amor.© Norm Rourke
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Love Lost
She sat alone, the fire her only friend,
Her heart recalled forgotten years,
And things that might have been;
A young love so bold and sure,
Had left to seek his fame,
With Pancho on his quest
He sought to make a name.
The years slipped by without a word,
Yet still she said her prayer,
That someday soon he would return,
And with her life he'd share.
As nights went by
With no knock upon her door,
She closed her eyes to see him
And whispered, mi amor.© Norm Rourke
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Emmett Dalton at Horsethief Canyon
(Based on a true legend)It was a blustery morn in '05 when he stepped from the train,
A bulky coat, hat pulled low, he was a man without a name,
Stationmaster Bartholomew saw him on his way,
After telling him when the last train left on that cold winter day.
Some hours later as the passengers got aboard,
The stranger with a satchel slipped through the crowd ignored,
As the train left the station, its master scratched his head,
"Somehow he looked familiar, or it's something I have read."
He took a friend to the canyon high above the Cimarron,
Where lawless desperadoes hid out while on the run,
A freshly dug hole with a kettle nearby,
Had traces of gold and silver seen clearly by the eye.
From stories told of Coffeyville and the raid upon that town,
Only one bank robber survived and still could be around.
He served his time and no longer had a debt,
Emmett Dalton made his way to the place he remembered yet.
Whether true or not no one knows if this tale is right,
But folks along the Cimarron still hear horses late at night.© Norm Rourke
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Just Another CowboyI was settin' 'n thinkin' 'bout the years that passed my way,
Wonderin' if I'd done this or that would it be different today,
If I was a banker, I could have a coach to ride,
Or if I'd been a lawyer (God forbid!) folks would look at me with pride,
Maybe had I been a preacher, I could have saved many a soul,
And the Lord would comfort me when I was tired and old.
Others have made more money 'n are livin' pretty high,
While I've been workin' for wages, sometimes my well runs dry,
But instead I'm just a cowboy with nothin' much to show;
A well-worn saddle, beat up boots 'n battered hat pulled low.
My life has had its pleasures 'n a bit of sorrow too,
But all in all I can't complain now that it's almost through.
If I had it to do over, I'd probably be the same,
Just another cowboy, mighty proud to wear the name.© Norm Rourke
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Little Jake
Little Jake the burro was testin' out his legs,
T'weren't nothin' more than spindly sticks,
A couple of skinny pegs,
But Little Jake kept on wobblin' as he tried to gain control,
A determined little cuss, and only hours old.
Afore long he was struttin' 'long the pasture fence,
Kickin' up 'n rompin' like he ain't got no sense,
Although he was just learnin' what it was to be alive,
He never strayed too far from his ma's protective side.
Little Jake is curious in a cautious sort of way,
As he comes to the wire for attention every day,
I've made a pard of Little Jake, 'n pards we'll always be,
My day is a might better when he runs over to me.© Norm Rourke
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The StrangerThere was nothing special about his life,
No one noticed him at all,
He lived alone t'was seldom seen,
And had no friends to call.
A stranger with a history,
He came to town but rare,
Paid hard cash for what he got,
And never lingered there,
Some said he was an outlaw
Who'd given up the game,
Others said a famous lawman,
But they couldn't recall his name.
While loading up his wagon,
Some rowdies stood nearby,
With taunts and jeers they called him names,
And spat into his eye,
He calmly wiped his face,
And turned back to his chore,
As the rowdies laughed harder,
They vowed to taunt him more.
A hand upon his shoulder,
He turned with face of stone,
And gripped the taunter's arm,
With a force that crushed the bone,
The man went to his knees,
As he tried to lose the grip,
"Don't make your move too late, friend
"Unless you finish it."
The others watched silently,
As their partner's face showed pain,
This was not a man to trifle with,
A man who had no name.
He loosed his grip and turned away,
And went back to his work,
The silence broken by the sound
Of a hammer pulling back,
As swift as lightning he spun around,
And in his hands he held,
A Henry rifle aimed to fire,
Its force was known quite well.
"You test my patience and won't leave me be,"
He said in soft-spoken voice,
"You've pushed me far with your tease,
"And now I have no choice."
The others stood aside,
Lest they be in the line of fire,
For they knew what would come,
Was not their own desire.
"You've made your call, now follow through,
"Or put your weapon down,
"And leave me be to go my way,
"And alive we'll both leave this town."
The rowdy backed away,
As the others turned to go,
But he drew his pistol up,
To learn he was too slow.
The stranger flicked the reins,
And the wagon pulled away,
Tears welled in his eyes,
For the death he brought this day.© 2001, Norm Rourke
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Pioneer Woman
She was a beauty in her simple way,
Facing tomorrow as just another day
Of hard work and chores and kids to raise,
She didn't get much rest; she didn't get much praise.
A pioneer woman whose weathered face,
Showed determination and a simple grace,
In her own homespun and sensible shoes,
She settled a land and paid her dues.
Tough though she was, her heart was good,
Always ready to help whenever she could,
When weather took her crops and death took her men,
She rolled up her sleeves and started again.
Sometimes her life was shortened by the struggles every day,
And 'round her bed they gathered where softly they heard her pray:
"Lord, keep them safe when I am gone if this be your will,"
She closed her eyes and breathed no more,
A beauty ever still.© 2001, Norm Rourke
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Peaceful Valley Town
The sky was dark; the stars were bright,
The moon was deadly cold,
The men wore faces of bitterness,
And death that was foretold,
Ponies tired from traveling hard,
Made their way to town,
Where anxious men were waiting
To hear the ominous sound
Of guns being readied
By those they knew so well.
Before this night was over,
Some would live in Hell.
The silent night was shattered,
As bullets found their mark,
And men fell from their saddles
When death came from the dark.
In minutes it was over,
The riders on the ground,
No longer would they threaten
This peaceful valley town.© 2001, Norm Rourke
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
It's How You Think, Cowboy
I wasn't born a cowboy or even in cowboy land,
I came from the Deep South with palm trees and sand,
But I left that place and traveled west,
Eventually in Oklahoma I came to rest,
I don't ride a pony or do rodeo,
But my word is true and my handshake so,
You don't have to be a cowboy to know what is right,
Or enjoy the great outdoors and a star filled night,
You many not bust broncs and get full of dirt,
But you still get paid for a full day's work.
So to all my cowboy friends, I'll tell you what's true:
I may not be a cowboy--but I think just like you.© 2001, Norm Rourke
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The Legend
The old man sat quietly in the corner of the bar,
As the young men talked of exploits they had,
Of rivers they'd crossed and wells gone dry,
And good days fewer than bad,
They yipped and howled about their lives as cowboys on the range
And slapped each other on the back,
Outtelling one another with stories of their fame,
Of tall tales there was no lack.
The old man, tired of listening, rose to take his leave,
When one young brag eyed him as he passed,
He tipped his hat in salute for he knew what he had seen,
A legend in this time that would not last:
He rangered down in Texas,
Drove cattle to the north,
Wagon bossed a train across the Great Divide,
He brought law to the west,
Bucked all that nature gave,
And in the hearts of cowboys never died.
The young man raised his glass as he stood up from his chair,
"Here's to all who came before,
May they live forever in our minds,
They're the best that ever were,
'cause good cowboys are mighty hard to find."© 2001, Norm Rourke
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The Fiddler
The bow lightly touched the strings,
As the music filled the air,
And the fiddler closed his eyes,
So the melody was clear.
The dancers moved with ease,
Across the smooth plank floor,
While the fiddler played his tune,
The sound went out the door.
The music rose to heaven,
Where God, His ear attuned,
Smiled His affirmation,
For the beauty brought to bloom.
The fiddler finished playing,
Put down his bow and 'lin,
Closed his eyes to rest a while,
For the music had to end.© 2002, Norm Rourke
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The Truth of the West
He sat his horse in the Wild West show,
In buckskin and beads he shone,
His hat cocked rakishly to the side,
This showman was at home,
William F. Cody was his name but
He went by Buffalo Bill,
With Indians and cowboys he rode,
Showing off their old West skills,
The show has ended, the lights gone out,
The fantasy is no more,
Buffalo Bill and his Wild West show,
Have gone and locked the door,
He gave an untrue image
Of what the West was like,
With him as the leading hero,
Wearing a hat of white,
The truth of the West is found,
In the lives of those who were here,
And those who came much later,
To work and live out their years,
They ranched and farmed and fought and stayed,
Through times both good and bad,
And gave us a better history,
Than Bill Cody ever had,
Here's to the Native people,
And here's to the pioneers,
May their spirits be always with us,
In the West that is truly theirs.
© 2002, Norm Rourke
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The Ghost
The old man sat on the porch,
Wind blew devils in the air,
His faded eyes shaded by
A battered hat showing wear,
His droving days were over
With the passing of an age,
And now he was a footnote
On a dusty history page.
Still he had his memories
When a cowboy's life he knew,
Working hard from sun to sun
'Til daily tasks were through.
He let go a heavy sigh
Pushing himself from the chair,
Setting his hat more firmly,
He left no sign he'd been there.© 2002, Norm Rourke
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
This Old Hat
It's seen some wear, this old hat
That hangs unused and frayed,
Its stampede string still intact
Of fancy horsehair braid.
The trails it rode long ago
When wire did not fence out,
Now seem long passed and forgot
Like cowboys' whoop and shout.
Though used no more, this old hat
Still hangs behind the door,
Waiting to be worn again
Down a dusty trail once more.© 2003, Norm Rourke
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Read Norm Rourke's Christmas Comes in a Chevy Truck posted
with other Holiday 2001 poems
About Norm Rourke:
See Norm Rourke's web site, http://normrourke.com for information about him, his appearance schedule, poetry, and more.
In June, 2005, Norm's book, Prairie Wind, Poems and Stories, was published.
To order autographed copies, send check or money order for $22.54 ($19.95 + shipping & handling) payable to:
Norm Rourke
Stone Bluff Ranch
11100 High Ridge Rd
Beggs OK 74421-3105
Please allow 10-12 days for delivery
PRAIRIE WIND (ISBN 1413767257) can also be ordered from PublishAmerica, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Borders, and WaldenbooksVisit Norm Rourke's web site for more information.
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permission before using a poem in any form.© 2000-2004
Managing editor: M. Metegrano
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