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Cross Spur Ranch
Humansville, Missouri
Robin Morris



Honey Can you Help Me A Minute

Not long after she's wed,
these are the words a cowboy's wife soon learns to dread.

You always know you have much to fear,
when "Honey can you help me a minute" you hear.

These words are what started it all,
one Sunday morning last fall.

Me and the kids were all dressed in our Sunday best,
when my husband heard his calling from out west.

"Honey can you help in a minute" across the yard his words did float,
as I saw him leading our green broke colt.

"We just need to get him to back up a step or two" he said,
at those words I should have fled.

"I'll boost you up, just hold onto the reins,
I'm sure your new dress won't get any stains."

Against my better judgment,
I listened to this statement.

There was nothing graceful about this mess,
setting astride a colt in high heels and a dress.

He tapped the colt on the legs, the lesson had begun,
now this is when a cowboy's son decided to have some fun.

He gave that colt a big whack,
the four legged devil penned his ears and arched his back.

He let out a squeal,
that gave me a chill.

Across the yard he begin to sunfish,
to be able to reach the stirrups was my only wish.

"Hang on Honey!"
my husband yelled, as if it was all funny.

Why, I had hung out the laundry just bets me all to heck,
from under those clothes we bucked with long johns hanging around my neck.

What a I sight I must have been,
to do this on Sunday, surely had to be a sin.

Just has I thought I had rode him, for all he was worth,
my heel got caught under the girth.

Over his head I went with a thud,
landing face down in the mud.

Across the yard and out the gate he flew,
still carrying my very best shoe.

I stood up all covered in slime,
my new dress not worth a dime.

I looked around my family I wanted to see,
but there was not a soul in sight except me,

When in the house I hobbled and shut the door,
out by the barn you never heard such laughter roar.

To church we must go next Sunday,
for I must pray.

When I hear my husband say, "Honey can you help me a minute,"
God, please help me to see my limit.

Before I'm old and gray,
these words I must learn to say,
"No Way!"

Robin Morris
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



Cowboy's Painting

The sky is gray and cold,
The wind has a chill and snow in its hold.

My job is to bring a lost bull back,
to hunt him out of this 500 acre tract.

As I look out across the pasture,
snowflakes begin to dance with pleasure.

Ol" Man Winter has turned his magic loose in the air,
Not giving me or my job a care.

Half a dollar sized snowflakes fall,
Like someone shook a snow globe ball.

My pony's ready to trot his spirit taking flight,
matching the Ol' Man Winter's spite.

The trees sway and squeak,
the wind making them speak.

Within minutes the ground has a white cover,
 I must ride out to meet my task without waver.

As I start to turn out onto the prairie,
coming down the road a car I see.

I see the driver, hands gripping the wheel and tension on his face,
like a gambler holding an ace

Our eyes meet, he looks at me like I'm insane,
Riding out into the storm, he thinks I've lost my brain.

I smile and relax,
tension makes his face look like wax.

He hurries racing time,
trying to make an extra dime.

I ride away with a grin,
feeling like a figure in a winter scene.

Suddenly my heart is glad,
Ol' Man Winter ain't so bad.

I know that bull's out there waiting,
I'll just ride along and enjoy this cowboy painting.

2001, Robin Morris 



Now long about late winter there comes a time,
when cowboys get a little craziness running up their spine.

Spring fever seems to touch their brain,
making them go a little insane.

As this story is told,
remember old Sam and Joe had spent way too long out in the cold.

A deep freeze was trying to set a new goal,
and dying cattle were paying the toll.

Being in the wrong place at the wrong time, you might say,
is what got Joe in trouble that day.

Joe was chipping ice,
when Sam came ridding by, dragging a dead cow carcass.

When Sam yelled, "wanta ski,"
Joe was ready for a fun spree.

Ol' Joe really made quite a sight,
as he sat astride that carcass, ready to take flight.

He gripped her front legs and grinned like a Harley rider with a set a of
new wheels,
he let out a yell, "let's head for the hills."

Sam took off like a tornado,
leavin' Joe's hat layin' in the snow.

By this time a crowd was beginning to gather,
cowboys, bored and sick of the weather.

As the boys started to shout and yell,
Sam's gelding took a buckin' spell.

Right about now, Joe was feelin' he'd made a mistake,
while the show, was makin' Sam's spirit wake.

Sam laid leather to his gelding's side,
making Joe fly on that bovine hide.

Believe me, you ain't never seen nothin',
till you've seen a bovine carcass drift  bustin'.

Just as Joe begin to know he'd had enough,
the ride really got rough.

As Sam swung around to headed home at last,
he failed to see a fence post coming up fast.

Joe yelled "Whoa!"
and Sam thought he said, "GO."

Slack gathered in the rope as Sam made his turn to the right,
but the fence post caught in the middle, jerkin' it tight.

The rope busted, sending Sam's cargo sailing,
across the prairie Joe went, rolling and wailing.

Cowboys whooped and bets were quickly dropped,
on who the winner would be, when the wrestling match stopped.

Joe might have lost had that cow not already been dead,
Sam, he laughed till he fell in a snowdrift on his head.

Many winters will come and go,
and Joe will always have scares to show.

But Joe won't forget to make Sam pay,
he's just waitin' for the right day.

Joe figures a good time is the barbecue in the fall,
he sayin' we've goin' to play polo and use Sam for the ball.

2001, Robin Morris 
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



The cowboy is different from any man you've ever known,
he lives by a law all his own, his life style is his alone.
Not all can understand him, most won't,
those who believe they do, probably don't.

His logic is, never walk where you can ride,
and always have a rope by your side.
A man who is hard and can ride into the face of the devil,
he lives stories, most only read about in a western novel.

A man who's not afraid to crawl onto a bronc or rope anything under the sun,
but when it comes to showing his feelings his courage is none.
A denim shirt, jeans and a hat are his best trim.
his eyes are distant with a look hidden under his hat brim.

His prayers are not filled with desires of luxuries or a rich fate,
but with the want of open space, fast horses and a loop that's true and straight.
His ears aren't filled with records, radios and all that sound,
his music is the blowing wind, jingling spurs, and the pounding of hooves on the ground.

When most folks are in by the fire, hiding from the chill,
he's out chasing a wild rogue, just for the thrill.
In crowds he feels out of place,
he needs his open space.

While most think he's lost in the past out on the range,
those who love him pray, that never will he change.

2001, Robin Morris 
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



About Robin Morris

My name is Robin Morris and I live near Humansville, Missouri with my husband Leslie and our 2 children, Cheyenne and Colton. My husband Leslie is a cowboy. He does cowboy day work for a lot of the local ranchers. We raise beef cattle & AQHA foundation horses. We raise horses bred to do ranch work. Our horse herd consists of 50 plus horses. So we eat, breathe and sleep horses.

I work at the school as a teaching assistant, but my main career is our horses. My hobbies are writing poems and stories and horses. Most of my poems and stories are inspired by experiences we have had or stories Leslie brings home with him. I have written several magazine articles, but I love to write poems. 

We brand our horses and cattle with the Cross Spur brand.  It is our way of showing everyone we thank God for being able to live our lives the cowboy way.



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