The Latest
What's New
Newsletter
Subscribe (free!)Be a Part of it All
About the BAR-D
Join us!Cowboy Poetry Collection
Folks' poems
Honored Guests
Index of poemsPoetry Submissions
Guidelines
Current Lariat Laureate
Events CalendarFeatured Topics
Classic Cowboy Poetry
Newest Features
Poets and musicians
Cowboy poetry topics
Programs of interest
Gathering reports
In memory
Who Knows?Cowboy Life and Links
Western Memories
Books about Cowboy Poetry
Other sites
Well pards, we had such a good time keepin' Christmas every day in December, and some BAR-D poets have some fine New Year's poems, so we're havin' a Countdown to 2002, with at least one new poem every day, listed right here.
If you've still got the Christmas spirit, we hope you'll enjoy our 2001 Christmas special, right here.
Start out the new year right with The Big Roundup, our new collection that is gettin' rave reviews from folks in the know:
Preview The Big Roundup here. There's order info here.
"An entertaining and heartwarming collection of modern
and classic Cowboy Poetry. A wonderful treasury,
including many of my favorites." Don Edwards"The Big Roundup is an important addition to help to keep the cowboy in the cowboy heritage movement. The book and CowboyPoetry.com are great resources for Western entertainment."
Bobby Newton, Editor and Publisher of Rope Burns; Director of The Academy of Western Artists
"My husband and I had plans for the evening but our copy of The Big Roundup came in the mail and all plans were forgotten. We stayed up into the wee hours of the night reading to each other from this wonderful book. We couldn't put it down. Each poem brought tears, chuckles, memories for both of us. We hadn't read to each other like that in all the years we've been together. Not only is The Big Roundup the best book we've read but you can now say that it brings families closer together."
Jo Hargrave, radio host of Keepin' it Cowboy, KJON 850
"The Big Roundup is one of the best gatherings of classic and contemporary cowboy poetry to come out of the chute in a long time. A must have for every cowboy poetry fan!"
Andy Hedges, AWA-nominated Cowboy Poet, musician, and performer; Days and Nights in the Saddle
"A fine combination of classics and classics to be."
Wylie Gustafson of Wylie and the Wild West, Western music maker,
songwriter, and top yodeler; Paradise
Countdown to 2002!
James Barton Adams
A Cowboy ToastS. Omar Barker
Cowboy's New Year's ResolutionsSteve Dirksen
New YearDon Gregory
Reminisicin'
Coosie's Rainbow Stew
Resolvin' ResolutionsSam Jackson
FriendsRod Miller
Year 2002 Diet ResolutionJanice Mitich
A New Year's GooseRod Nichols
New Year's EveMike Puhallo
Resolutions!Hal Swift
New Year's Eve in Austin
Thursday, December 27, 2001
From Lariat Laureate runner up Janice Mitich, A New Year's Goose
A poem worth repeatin' from last year, from First Lariat Laureate Rod Nichols, New Year's Eve
Friday, December 28, 2001
From current Lariat Laureate runner up Don Gregory, Reminisicin' and Coosie's Rainbow Stew
Saturday, December 29, 2001
From current Honored Guest Mike Puhallo, Resolutions!
From Lariat Laureate runner up Rod Miller, Year 2002 Diet Resolution
A classic New Year poem by S. Omar Barker, Cowboy's New Year's Resolutions
Sunday, December 30, 2001
From current Lariat Laureate runner up Hal Swift, New Year's Eve in Austin
From current Lariat Laureate runner up Don Gregory, Resolvin' Resolutions
Monday, December 31, 2001
To celebrate New Year's Eve, a classic from James Barton Adams, A Cowboy Toast
Tuesday, January1, 2002
These just in:
A poem from current Lariat Laureate Sam Jackson, Friends
A poem from current Lariat Laureate runner up Steve Dirksen, New Year
A New Year's Goose
It was New Year's Eve back in nineteen and fifty-four.
Mother Nature was bringin' in the new year with a howlin' roar.
It'd been snowin' and blowin' hard for over seven days.
Dad had been feeding' cows with the work team and the sleigh.
A little after breakfast, the sky cleared and the wind died down.
Dad and Mom started talkin' of spendin' New Year's Eve in town.
Us four kids were gettin' old enough to be trusted home alone
Tho' it was four miles to our nearest neighbor, and we had no telephone.
Jerry was six years old, Janette seven, and Joyce and I were nine.
But we told our folks that we'd be good and everything would be fine.
Mom and Dad dearly loved to dance. They could really waltz and jitterbug.
We didn't want to spoil their fun, and like Scrooge, be a holiday humbug.
There was a big New Year's party at the Halfway House Restaurant and Bar.
Since the storm had stopped, ranchin' folks would come from near and far,
Because it was located at the junction on Highway Twenty-five,
And goin' on to Sheridan was another treacherous hour's drive.
Mom looked so glamorous in her fancy, red, dancin' dress.
Dad wore brand-new Levis and his black Stetson from Uncle Jess.
Mom put on her long, dress coat, wrapped a lace scarf around her curls,
Gave us all a New Year's kiss, twirled and laughed like a teenage girl.
Dad was warmin' up Mom's car and not the ranch pick-up truck.
We'd have the house all to ourselves for six hours with any luck.
We planned to have our own New Year's party just like the adults,
Keepin' occupied with games and fun wasn't very difficult.
Santa had left Joyce a plastic, toy trumpet and me a clarinet.
Jerry poundin' on a pan, Janette with sleigh bells finished our quartet.
We practiced playing and singin' Christmas carols and "Auld Lang Syne."
At midnight we'd toast the New Year with grape juice, pretend wine.
It was half-past ten, we were wound up and things were really jumping'
When we heard, on the back porch, a lot of stompin' and a thumpin'.
Who should walk in but Mom, and she sure looked like hell.
Her clothes were sopping' wet, and she had mud on her lapels.
Seems that in an hour's driving, they'd gone but seven miles.
The roads were nothin' but sheets of ice and frozen mud so vile.
They slid off the road on the big curve just past the Baker place.
Dad finally dug 'em out. Their own tracks, they carefully retraced.
On bad spots where the car threatened to slide off of the road,
Dad, walkin' along side, kept it steady with just one handhold.
When they got back to Star's house, the headlights shone on several geese.
Somehow the blizzard's winds had caused their holiday release.
Mom had visions of roast goose with oyster dressing for a New Year's feast.
Since the storm ruined her evening of fun, it could feed us all at least.
They cut out the plumpest one and cornered it against a high snowdrift.
Mom grabbed its legs. At thirty-three she still was pretty swift.
The goose let out a honk and started flapping' its great wings,
Beatin' Mom's face and arms, but in desperation she did cling.
Her scarf slid down across her eyes. She lost her left high heel,
And staggering all lopsided, she bounced off the car's rear wheel.
Slipping on the icy pavement on one bare foot and one dancin' shoe,
Mom toppled on her face with her skirt and petticoats all askew.
Goose dragged her down into the bar ditch filled to the top with snow.
For twenty yards her face was ploughin' up a deep, white furrow.
They threw up a plume just like a snowplow used by the county crew.
Mom's Irish was up, and she'd die before she bid that bird adieu.
In mid-flap, the goose changed directions, since its plan wasn't workin' out,
Flipped Mom on her back like a beached whale as it reversed its route.
It pulled her up against the fence, then flopped between the barbed-wire strands.
Mom couldn't see to get her feet and let loose of that fowl contraband.
Her coat sleeve tore on the wire as she pushed her scarf back from her eyes,
Wiped snow from her nose and mouth to catch her breath from this exercise.
Struggling to her feet, she caught one heel in the lace of her petticoat.
Fell into a snow drift tangled up in her slips and dress overcoat.
Dad wasn't too much help to her, 'cause he was rollin' on the ground,
Laughin' fit to bust his gut, this spectacle had held him spellbound.
Mom was more upset about that bird's escape than her ruined party dress.
She finally saw the humor and forgave Dad's laughin' at her distress.
At midnight we rung out the old, greeted the New with a toast of grape juice.
January first, an antelope roast was served and not a stuffed, golden goose.
© 1992, Janice E. MitichYou can read more of Lariat Laureate Runner up Janice Mitich's poetry
right here at the BAR-D.
New Year's Eve
© 2000 Rod NicholsI'll saddle the roan then ride out alone
neath a clear moon with frost on the ground,
to a high ridge I know
through the dark pines and snow
far away from the dim lights of town.
In a short space of time a hillside I'll climb
to the top with my face to the wind,
and there I'll just wait
as the hour grows late
and a new year once more will begin.
I'll take a look then on where I have been
and the changes the old year has brought,
the good times and bad
some happy some sad
as the faces of time fill my thoughts.
In the silence of night from that small patch of white
I'll say "Adios" to lost friends,
with a small prayer at last
for the present and past
then I'll ride down that hill once again.
You can read more of First Lariat Laureate Rod Nichols'
poetry here at the BAR-D
Reminiscin'
1, Don GregorySittin' by the campfire's light,
On the eve, of another New Year's night.
Ponderin', the happenin's, of the year,
All the sorrow, all the cheer.
Seen things I wish, hadn't taken place,
Seen a shocked look, on America's face.
It brought somethin' tho', that I ain't seen in years,
Folks standin' together, dryin' each other's tears.
Laid Pards to rest, won't see em no more,
Till it's my turn to ride, on Jordan's far shore.
But I met new folks, some I call friend,
Guess everything balances out in the end.
It seems that for each sadness we feel,
To us, some wonderment, God will reveal.
For Today, no matter how heavy our heart,
Tomorrow, God willin', we'll make a new start.
So I'm sittin' tonight, fire burnt to ember,
Listenin' to the herd, wonderin' if they remember.
Horace's voice, as it rang out, so clear
As he sang many a night, just calmin' their fear.
I recall, the stories, that he'd sometimes tell,
About back in the depression, that musta been hell.
I can't fathom, tryin' to get by,
By cleanin' chickens, for a nickel a try.
He taught me a lot, 'bout the job that we do,
Give it your best, see everything through.
I see his face, ever' once in a while,
And it never fails, to give me a smile.
Well, in the East, it's getting gray,
Seems I've pondered the night away.
Oranges, and purples, are takin' the place,
Of the blanket, of starlight, and all it's quiet grace.
Not just a new day, but a brand new year,
One, I hope, that's filled with cheer.
My best wishes are with all of you,
Pards, and Bards. Old friends, and new.© 200
Coosie's Rainbow Stew
I was fixin' tha noontime meal,
On one icy New Year's Day.
Most all the hands were sleepin' in,
After goin' to town to play.
It was my "good luck" special,
Hoppin' Johnny, for good health.
And my Paw Paw always said,
Have cabbage, for your wealth.
I was stirrin' up a cobbler,
With some peaches, from a can.
When cooked in my Dutch oven,
It'll please most any man.
The boys, commenced to roustin' out,
Guess they smelled the grub.
I hollered, and told 'em to wash up,
There's water in that tub.
I kinda noticed, late last night,
That them boys seemed kinda down.
They weren't the usual jolly bunch,
When they come back from town.
I was ponderin' as I cooked,
Tryin' to figure what was wrong.
When it all come back to me,
Like an old familiar song.
I'd seen this kind of behavior,
A time or two before.
When waddies, get to rememberin',
Pards, that won't be 'round no more.
This year's drive was a tough one,
We lost three good hands.
Bill, Jim, and Wesley, laid to rest,
Side by each, in the Kansas sands.
Right then I knew, what I had to do,
And I called the boys around.
Told 'em I could understand,
Why all of them were down.
"Pull up a chair, boys" I said,
"Or just lean against the wall.
I got a recipe, right here,
That I'm gonna share with y'all.
I can tell, just by your manner,
That y'all are feeling blue.
So listen to this old Coosie,
As I tell 'bout Rainbow Stew.
Well start off in your biggest pot,
Cuz it always makes a batch.
Fill it with the things you love,
All the good things you can catch.
Like hope, and love, and laughter,
Things that bring good cheer.
Add some things you want to do,
In all the comin' years.
Add a pound of good times,
And a cup of goodness too,
You'll want to invite all your Pards,
To share your Rainbow Stew.
Spice it up with old memories,
From that can way in the back.
Shake a couple of new ones in,
Just to take up slack.
Temper the fire, with kindness,
So the stew won't ever burn.
You'll add ingredients, of your own,
From all the things you learn.
And add a few more goodies,
From folks no longer here.
Like maybe one of Shorty's smiles,
They always brought good cheer.
Whenever you decide to make it,
Remember, this stew's meant to share.
So, get all your Pards together,
There's always stew to spare.
This old recipe, I give you,
Why it's really just a base.
Add things, as you feel the need,
To put a smile upon your face.
Well, dinner's almost ready,
Food for bodies, and for souls.
Grab your plates, and belly up,
Whilst I put this cobbler 'neath some coals."
When I, got back, amongst the hands,
Well, I was shore surprised.
A smile on every waddy's face,
And mirth, back in their eyes.
They said, "Coosie, have a seat,
Today we all serve you.
You're always there to fix us up.
And you know just what to do.
We just want you to know,
How much we appreciate,
All the things you do for us,
From doctorin' to fillin' plates.
For years you've fed our bodies,
We realize now, you fed souls too.
And we want to show our thanks pard,
For sharin' Rainbow Stew.© 2001, Don Gregory
Resolvin' Resolutions
Here I sits, in the bunkhouse,
Outside, the snow is stirrup deep.
Thinkin' on the comin' year,
And resolutions, I might can keep.
Well, the way my britches fit,
I might lose twenty pounds.
I tried that one year, and gained 'bout ten,
How'd THAT git turned around.
Mayhaps I'll try an easier life,
Than pushin' contrary hides.
Move to town, and git a job,
Like saddlin' liv'ry snides.
I recall the year I tried that,
Got me a job, at the dry goods store.
I drug that job, and come back here,
'Bout January twenty-four.
I gave up drinkin', in '82,
Said there'd be no more headaches.
That lasted till St. Paddy's day,
Guess we all make those mistakes.
Gave up cussin', one New Years,
Didn't last, it's safe to say.
Smacked my thumb, with fencin pliers,
The air turned blue, that day.
Of all the resolutions,
I've made in years gone by.
I can't think of one I've kept
On this you can rely.
So this year I got a good one,
Yup, this grizzled old galoot.
Is gonna resolve hisself,
Not to be so resolute.
© 2001, Don Gregory
Read more of current Lariat
Laureate runner up Don Gregory's
poetry here at the BAR-D.
Resolutions!
We make well intentioned resolutions,
or party until dawn,
Hang up a brand new calendar,
catch our breath, then carry on.
Those earnest promises we make our
selves,
in the middle of the night,
So often crumble into dust
before the dawn's first light!
Here is a resolution I'll try to keep,
to write a poem a week all year
that looks at life, from the humorous side
and spreads a little cheer.
I also resolve to do my best,
on the range or in the street,
to find a smile and a friendly word,
for every one I meet!
© 2001,
Mike Puhallo
Resolutions! is Mike Puhallo's
Meadow Muffin for December 31, 2001. Your can read a new Meadow
Muffin each week at CowboyLife.com
and also on the Poets Page at
the British Columbia Cowboy Heritage Society (BCCHS) site
where Mike is President.
Read more of Honored Guest Mike Puhallo's
poetry here at the BAR-D.
Yogurt, Brussels sprouts, cauliflower,
pickled beets, tofu, sweet and sour,
boneless, skinless chicken breast,
alfalfa sprouts only cows digest,
sour cream, yams, processed cheese,
salads made with spinach leaves,
fermented cabbage, cream-soup dishes,
rolled up rice with uncooked fishes
are foods that don't taste good to me
so I'll do without them till 2003.
© 2001, Rod Miller
Rod Miller notes: There's nothing much Cowboy about it except for the fact that every cowboy, everywhere, should be able to find at least one of his own un-favorite foods on my list.
Read more of Lariat Laureate Runner Up Rod Miller's
poetry here at the BAR-D.
Self portrait by Rod Miller
Cowboy's New Year's Resolutions
As one who's been a cowhand
since the wildcats learned to spit,
I've made some resolutions
for the comin' year, to wit:
Resolved, to ride a shorter day
and sleep a longer night;
To never come to breakfast
till the sun is shinin' bright;
To draw a top-hands wages
when they're due or quit the job
And hunt a wealthy widow
or an easy bank to rob.
Resolved, to quit the wagon
when the chuck ain't up to snuff,
To feed no more on bullet beans
nor chaw on beef that's tough.
Resolved, to straddle
nothin' in the line of saddle mount
That ain't plumb easy-gaited,
gentle broke, and some account.
Resolved, that when it blizzards
and there's stock out in the storm,
To let the owner worry
while I stay in where it's warm.
Resolved, that when it comes
my turn next spring to ride the bogs,
I'll don the bib and tucker
of my town and Sunday togs,
And tell the boss, by gravies,
if he craves to shed some blood,
Just try to make me smear 'em
tailin' moo-cows from the mud.
Resolved, that when a thunderhead
comes rollin' up the sky,
I'll lope in off my circle
to the bunkhouse where it's dry.
Resolved, to do such ropin'
as a ropin' cowhand must,
But never when the air ain't free
from cattle-trompled dust.
Resolved to show no hosses,
and resolved, to swim no cricks;
Resolved, no dead-cow skinnin',
and resolved, no fence to fix.
Resolved, to swing no pitchfork,
no pick, no ax, no spade;
Resolved to wear my whiskers --
if I want to -- in a braid!
Resolved, to take this New Year
plenty easy through-and-through,
Instead of sweatin' heavy like
I've always used to do.
As one who's been a cowhand
since before who laid the chunk,
It may sound like I'm loco,
or it may sound like I'm drunk
To make such resolutions
as you see upon my list,
And others purt near like 'em
that my mem'ry may have missed;
But gosh, they sound so pleasant
to a son of saddle sweat!
And New Year's resolutions --
well, I never kept one yet!
So why make resolutions
that bring furrows to your brow?
Let's make 'em free and fancy --
'cause we'll bust 'em anyhow!
S. Omar Barker; reprinted with permission from Cowboy Miner Productions
This S. Omar Barker poem is reprinted with the kind permission of Cowboy Miner Productions, publishers of the finest in classic and modern Cowboy Poetry. This poem is from their book Classic Rhymes by S. Omar Barker
New Year's Eve in Austin
Settin' in the station in Austin, Texas
Waitin' fer m'bus t'come in
It's New Year's Eve an' no one's here
Except fer a couple old men
This ol' cowpoke comes wanderin' in
His saddlebags 'round 'is shoulder
An' lookin' at 'is boots it's hard t'tell
Whether him or them is older
He stops by me, his eyebrows up
I says go ahead an' set down
Y'look like y'oughta git yerself some rest
What is it that brings you t'town
I'm leavin' the job that I've worked this year
A youngster's replacin' me
I'm movin' to a town called Memory, he says
It's a place where I wanna be
I says, Wait a minute, have I got this right
Yer boss is jist lettin' y'go
Cowboyin' is tough when y'start t'git old
Y'don't fire a good hand cuz he's slow
But the ol' cowpoke, he says, Calm yerself
Ain't the boss's fault at all
It's a fact a nature that when yer time is up
We all gotta answer the call
Y'see, I'm the year, Two-Thousand-and-One
An' t'night's when I hafta be gone
There's a kid'll be ridin' the next bus in
I'll hand 'im my load an' move on
If y'wanta do somethin' t'help me out
An' y'got a little time that's free
Give the kid a hand with these saddle bags
Don't stand aroun' wavin' at me
These heavy ol' bags hold alla the jobs
That I never got t'git done
Two-Thousand-and-Two's gonna need yer help
Like a war that's still t'be won
Well, here comes the kid, help 'im out if y'kin
That ain't too tough a job, is it
But don't fergit, I'll be livin in Memory
If y'feel like y'wanta come visit
Bunkhouse Poems and Tall Tales
© 2001, Hal Swift
Read more of Lariat Laureate Runner Up Hal Swift's
poetry here at the BAR-D.
A Cowboy Toast
Here's to the passing cowboy, the plowman's pioneer;
His home, the boundless mesa, he of any man the peer;
Around his wide sombrero was stretched the rattler's hide,
His bridle sporting conchos, his lasso at his side.
All day he roamed the prairies, at night he, with the stars,
Kept vigil o'er thousands held by neither posts nor bars;
With never a diversion in all the lonesome land,
But cattle, cattle, cattle, and the sun and sage and sand.
Sometimes the hoot-owl hailed him, when scudding through the flat;
And prairie dogs would sauce him, as at their doors they sat;
The rattler hissed its warning when near its haunts he trod
Some Texas steer pursuing o'er the pathless waste of sod.
With lasso, quirt, and 'colter the cowboy knew his skill;
They pass with him to history and naught their place can fill;
While he, bold broncho rider, ne'er conned a lesson page, --
But cattle, cattle, cattle, and sun and sand and sage.
And oh! the long night watches, with terror in the skies!
When lightning played and mocked him till blinded were his eyes;
When raged the storm around him, and fear was in his heart
Lest panic-stricken leaders might make the whole herd start.
That meant a death for many, perhaps a wild stampede,
When none could stem the fury of the cattle in the lead;
Ah, then life seemed so little and death so very near, --
With cattle, cattle, cattle, and darkness everywhere.
Then quaff with me a bumper of water, clear and pure,
To the memory of the cowboy whose fame must e'er endure
From the Llano Estacado to Dakota's distant sands,
Where were herded countless thousands in the days of fenceless lands.
Let us rear for him an altar in the Temple of the Brave,
And weave of Texas grasses a garland for his grave;
And offer him a guerdon for the work that he has done
With cattle, cattle, cattle, and sage and sand and sun.
James Barton Adams
The editor's introduction to a 1968 publication of the Socorro County (New Mexico) Historical Society, "Some Letters and Writings of James Barton Adams" comments:
The letters of James Barton Adams (alias Jim Carlin) are here published for the first time...For several years he lived and worked in the rugged San Andres mountains of central New Mexico on a ranch owned by Captain Jack Crawford, famous Indian Scout and Poet. The land was harsh, the climate equal in its intensity and variety to the harshness of the land, and human companionship was only an occasional experience. Adams, educated and having an unusual way with words, was able to capture in his letters the spirit of this one small segment of the American Frontier.
A biographical sketch adds:
Adams was employed by Capt. Jack Crawford at his Dripping Springs, N. M. ranch from 1890-1892, and for reason or reasons unknown used an alias during this time. He chose to be called James "Jim" Carlin, and it is doubted that it was a pen name. Many of his poems were probably drawn from his life and experiences during this period in New Mexico. Adams wrote the foreword to Capt. Jack's book Whar the Hand O' God is Seen, published in 1913.
A biography in The Mecca, February 3, 1900, tells that Adams was born in Ohio and moved with his family to Iowa, "...when that state was 'way out West.' He enlisted at the first call for troops in 1861." The Socorro County biographical sketch tells that at age 75, during World War I, he volunteered his telegraphic services and "was probably the oldest telegraph operator working the key in the U. S...."
Adams became a newspaper columnist, and wrote poems still recited (and put to music) today. Read some of his other works, including A Cowboy Toast, The Cowboy's Dance Song" ("The High-Toned Dance"), and A Song of the Range here at the BAR-D.
Read more about James Barton Adams' in 1918 obituaries from The Denver Post and Denver Times, along with "Bill's in Trouble," here. (Read more about Captain Jack Crawford here.)
I’ve made it through another year,
one closer to my "prime."
Makes one fact stand out real clear;
“You can’t recycle time!”Which causes some concern for me,
the question comes to mind;
What good, or bad, results I see
from months just left behind?Did I lose— or make some gain—
toward that noble quest,
seen as futile to attain;
“Each day, to do my ‘best.’"I made some gains, and faltered, yes,
(the latter is my trend)
but overall, I’d claim success—
If you’ve remained my friend.© 2001, Sam and Reneé Jackson
You can read Lariat Laureate Sam Jackson's poetry
here at the BAR-D.
New Year
© 2001, Steve DirksenThe New Year is waitin' down in the corral
for me to toss my loop
I'll approach it with confidence but easy like
don't need to yell or whoop
I'll ease on board that hurricane deck
like takin' eggs from the coop
with a firm hand on the reins
sittin' deep for the next ride
I'll stay calm and watch its ears
to better roll with its stride
the next eight seconds will go fast
hope to keep intact my cowboy pride
Read more of Lariat
Laureate Runner Up "California Steve" Dirksen's
poetry here at the BAR-D and in the
January issue of American Cowboy
The Holiday 2001 collection
See the 2003 poems here.
Visit last year's Holiday poem collection here.
See the list of all the poems at the BAR-D here.
