TEX HEWITT
A Cowboy's Last Ride
Eight gents took a cowboy for his last ride today,
With heavy hearts, they helped him along his way.
Down church steps, down a road, down to ground,
Parson Parson prays, standin' at the grave, lonesome sound.
For all his life he'd done right, abided by the Code,
Long and tall, thought best by all with whom he rode.
Graced his time, rode the line, friend to one and all.
Never shirked, hard he worked, God has to him called.
Sad are we, no more to see his face bright with a smile,
His laugh's embrace, his easy ways, missed with every mile.
Was a top hand, kind of man, seldom found these days,
A celebration of faith and love, now at rest his body lays.
Tonight he rides the Milky Way with God, a chasin' strays.
With out a care, it's spring up there, roundup's under way.
Full of joy, he's with fine boys, travels wide, unfenced range,
Campfire of stars, music of guitars, peaceful, pleasant plains.
On a swift cayuse, riding fast and loose, gathering the herd.
Awaits us there beyond pain or care, with lariat and spurs.
He's watchin' down, at those still bound, to this mortal toil,
Till we too ride, there in the sky, free of this flesh bound coil.
He'll save us a spot, near the pot, for when we join the hands,
Together mount, cast about for steers that roam star land.
Way up there, without a care, once more together we will try,
Endless fun, God's chosen ones, shall meet in the by-and-by.© 2003, Tex Hewitt
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Through a Campfire's SmokeIt's in the campfire's smoke, amidst it's swirling grey,
Where time is surely breached, to the lore of yesterday.
As cowboys sit and reflect on a cool star lit night,
To softly strummed guitars, a sound that fits just right.
Stretched out lays all creation, hangin' there to view.
Not understood, not fathomed, just something we knew.
As distant, darkened mountains stand beneath the sky.
Diminished by wonders that bring forth the coyotes cry.
In the stillness of the prairie where wistful winds do play,
Here buffalo once stood where now the cattle stay.
While comets streak ore heaven, glowing with speed,
A silent voice is calling, growing. Our souls it does feed.
Beyond the wiles of man, where nocturnal nature lays,
Specters of long gone riders melt into our very ways.
Their weary, worn, rope burned hand, just like our own,
Once threw out their beds upon this same ancient stone.
Here to gaze up at stars, here to rest-here forever sleep,
Beside future passing men, in western traditions steeped..
Where they looked into the night where stars shown,
Felt some inner peace knowing they were not alone.
Here still their music plays, their laughter can be heard.
It's in our every deed, echoing through our every word.
Glance around the fire, take in these roughed faces there,
You'll see those olden cowboys, through that smoky air.
As we sit beside the campfire, we see our father's face.
Where he once sat reminded this was his father's place.
Here thin the veil does waver, held close by such a night,
We feel spirits calling-drawing us beside their campfire light.
Listen to a song, to dance in a dream under starlight's gleam.
Holding on to tomorrow, tonight we know yesterdays dream.
Here honor, faith and courage determine who we will be.
We're alike in that eternal wisdom, still riding wild and free,
Humbled by all creation, grounded by the night sky we see.
Thankful just to be living, with roots as deep as any tree.
Here beneath creation, here were our fathers did once stand,
Here beside a smoky campfire, we're branded by the land.
© 2004, Tex Hewitt
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
We asked Tex how he came to write this poem and he told us: It started last fall, on a trip that a few of us took to the Big Horn mountains in Wyoming, just south of Buffalo. We were hunting mule deer, with permission of a local rancher. Our first day out we came upon a small cabin that we had been informed was there. It was quite old, dating back into the days of the trail
herd, full of history one could reach out and feel.
Next day we headed further up into the mountains, to a spot we had been informed held good game. That night just as we were setting up camp, the rancher whose land we were one showed up to spend the night with us. After we had stuffed out faces with grub, we sat around the campfire, drinking coffee and watching the stars. Being the curious type, I asked him about
that cabin down below. He told me how it had been built back in the late 1870's or early 80's as a line shack, by his great grandfather.
Cowboys who rode the range back then had used it, some had wintered there, some had even died there. This naturally brought out more questions from me. (Fear I might have pestered the man some that night) After he had told me the tale of the cabin, which in a way was the tale of his family, and of that land itself, things grew silent for a time. As I sipped that coffee, there by the campfire, there came a thought. Through the campfires
smoke--sat this man, a man who was what we all are, part of the living past.
Some months later, while snowbound, thoughts of that hunting trip reminded me of those words--Through the campfires smoke. Remembering that night, the poem was born.
Honor Among Thieves
Old Shorty sat on the top fence rail, just a whittlin' away.
Joltin' Joe a strolin' slow was headed sure nuff his way.
Stoppin' there, near a chestnut mare, rolled a smokin' stick,
He lite 'er up, pulled 'er down, without speakin' up a lick.
There they stood, under sombrero hoods, a lazin' under the sun,
So who'd a know'd this was a plan to have themselves some fun?
Sure not Dapper Dan, that trustin' man, their target on this day.
The plan was sweet, soon to be complete, they put 'er into play.
"Shorty, ya hear, Jim spied Ole Mossyback near Wesrfork Creek!"
"What say some time tomorrow, we ride out and take us a peek."
"Boss still got that $1,000 bounty on that wild, loco steer's head,"
"What say we team on up and catch 'em, then we'll split the bread!"
"That's a game to my likin'." Drawled Shorty, stoppin' knife in hand.
"First thing though, be them calves boss ordered us ta brand."
"We'll do er' in the afternoon, so get ur' sleep, for ifin I figure right,"
"We'll split them greenbacks and hit town, have ourselves a night!"
Next mornin' in the bunk house, long before the break of the day,
Those wily two fainted sleep while watchin' Dapper Dan slip on away.
From the window they saw Dan grab a saddle, then throw it on a roan.
He headed out for Westfork Creek, to take on Ole Mossyback alone.
Ole Mosyback was a legend, he was known to each and every hand.
That steer was power, cunnin' and sheer cussedness, unafraid of man.
Weren't a single trick, that longhorn beast don't know how to throw.
T'weren't one old ranch hand who had not given Ole Mossyback a go.
Yet, that steer was still out there roamin' free, king of all he did survey.
Every wrangler with any sense knew to not get in that crafty critter's way.
That $1,000 prize, it was a joke, boss put up a figurin' he'd not go broke.
But a hat big as Dan's thought he'd cash in, the boy's knew that he'd choke.
Dan never saw the two of 'em, sittin' up there on that overlookin' ridge,
Attention focused on that ole steer, rope in hand, eyes locked across that bridge.
Dan charged that ornery critter, his rope twirlin' high up above his head,
Lariat shot out, straight and true, around the horns of the beast that fleed.
With hands of greased lightnin', Dan made three dallies round the saddle horn,
Then turned his mount, stomped 'er cold, that ole steer stayed true to form.
For at the feel of rope, Ole Mossy back turned, chargin straight at that horse,
Then all at once, changed his mind, a bellowin' that steer changed course.
Quick the rope stretched tight as Dan's saddle gave a shudder and a groan,
Chinch split in two, then to the ground both man and saddle were thrown.
Over that roughed ground, bouncin' round, Dan still sittin' that saddle strong,
Ole Mossyback ran at Westfork Creek, bellowin' out as he charged along.
He dragged Dan into that water fast, a wave erupted as they sped on through.
Then that strained rope it split, there sat Dan, all wet and cold and blue.
His last look at Ole Mossyback was the tail as it disappeared into the trees.
Dan cussed that ornery, crafty critter, astride saddle, chilled by mornin' breeze.
That's when he heard their horses, as them two jokers came a ridin' on up,
Dapper Dan looked on back, hat droopin' down as their laughter did erupt.
Slow, but sure, a smile did form across that drippin', bruised cowboy's face.
It were the kind of joke he'd play himself, they'd sure given him a taste.
"Now I know'd what were that sound, Westfork Creek was lettin' out a shout!"
Joltin' Joe did say. "It was a screamin' for Dan there to get up and get on out."
"Reckon your'n right." Smiled Shorty. "Exactly what we done did hear."
"Can't say that I blame it none, he only bathes but once a year!"
© 2004, Tex Hewitt
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The Bull Rider
There stands the old bull rider,
Scared, been broke up, proud.
Who's lived 8 seconds at a time
Beneath that roaring crowd.
Hard boiled, insides scrambled
From critters ornery, tough, mean.
He sat them all to risk those falls,
He was just like a machine.Now chaps torn, boots so worn
They would scarcely last a mile,
He stands alone, king without throne
And wears a knowin' smile.For the live he's loved and lived
Had much to give, he risked the call.
He was most alive, aboard them hides,
When 8 seconds meant it all!
Yet those many broken bones,
Body that grunts and groans,
Have burned a brand plain to see.
For each ride's sins he has atoned.
Now, Rodeo rounds have died down,
With no place for him to call home.
There's hard won fame in his name,
But it's left him all alone.
Still, there shines a pride in those eyes,
As he stands there straight and tall.
A reflection of grace on weathered face,
From when 8 seconds meant it all!
© 2004, Tex Hewitt
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Tex told us what inspired this poem: Chanced to go enjoy a Rodeo recently. While there, stopped and had a nice chewin' of the fat with an older gent. He was watching the wranglers who were ridin' that day, and tellin' a tale or two as he did. Mostly he was remembering his days on the circuit. He was a colorful ole pard, and an ex-bull rider.
You Ask, What's a Cowboy
Ya might think the rhyme is easy
But pard, that ain't how it goes.
It ain't bout riding wild horses,
Or wearing western clothes.
Yep, spinning a yarn gives it charm,
There's humor, sorrow, darin' savoir faire.
Yet, there's a moral code to uphold
Or partner, there just ain't nothing there.
Sure winds howl and coyotes prowl
And that's all well and good.
But to walk the walk, talk the talk,
It's best ya look under the hood.
See, a cowboy don't back water.
He'll stand there toe to toe.
Some think that it's bravado,
It ain't. That hombre's set to go!
Can brace him if you've a mind to,
But most men rue the day.
Cause he got no fear of fightin'
To him honor holds top sway.
He lives sitting bulls and bronco's,
And knows a sidewinder by sight.
He thinks, before he speaks,
So what he does say comes out right.
To him, it's just right or wrong
There ain't no shades of grey.
He's seen crying that comes with lying,
So he chose a better way.
He respects those around him,
Helps the weak, sick and lame.
Tips his hat to every lady,
Cause to him, manners ain't no game.
He shows respect for old ways,
Even those he don't understand.
Knows that goodness and compassion
Are the true measure of a man.
Yep, that's every true cowboy,
They've got a heart of gold.
Reckless, wild and fancy free,
Just like those legends of old.
A truer friend to the bitter end
You'd not want in your life.
He'll stand tall through it all,
Thick or thin, good times and strife.
For, there's a wisdom deep inside him,
A solid strength you just can't trim.
Where the solitude of all creation
Has left it's brand on him.
© 2004, Tex Hewitt
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Still Roundin' 'Em UpWith saddles on the coral fence
And horses stowed inside,
The hands are in the bunkhouse
All tired and weary eyed.
For they've ridden every canyon
Pullin strays from the mesquite.
Fought rain, sleet, wind and ornery
From a saddle or on their feet.
Now brandin' irons lay cold, lonely,
Shaved tails harassed no more,
And cowboys are so thankful
For the walls, roof and door.
As barn owl hoots soft lullaby
A pot-belly warms the room,
Wranglers are lost in slumber
As a coyote howls to the moon.
Yet they dream of sittin' a saddle,
A rope twirlin' over their heads,
Brandin' irons hot in the fire.
They're still roundin' 'em up--from bed.© 2004, Tex Hewitt
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Tex told us: When a gent gets a little older, sometimes even wiser, he often looks back on pleasant memories. One of my fondest memories from younger days has always been the round up! Long days in the saddle where work often became a competition between friends, nights around a campfire, tell stories of this days labor, and other round ups, talking cattle, and of course the camaraderie of fellow cowboys.
Strong, pleasant thoughts of ropin' calves, quarterhorses, the branding pits, are treasures that remind one of youth. Youth that gave it all there was to give, till the work was done. Afterward learning how tired a body could truly be, and rediscovering the simple joys of comfort that we all to often just take for granted. And finally, those dreams just after the job was done, where the glory of those days danced, even when one was
asleep.
All things considered, the bruises, nights on the ground, even sometimes in the rain, the times I laughed at someone else's humorous troubles, or the times they laughed at mine, the mud, the smell, the sweat, I would not change one thing!
Signin' On
So, ya want to be a cowboy
Like on that Silver Screen,
Sittin' tall up in the saddle,
Livin' out your dream!
Well pard, I got ta tell ya
That's all well and good.
Hollywood ain't real life,
Ranchin's misunderstood.
Sure, ya ride when cowboyin'
Out there chasin' strays,
In brush, thorns and catcus
That can rip your hide away.
Have ya ever dug a fence post
Sun burnin' ya where ya stand,
Strung miles of barbed wire
Every inch tearin' at your hands.
Chased cussed, ornery critters
That just won't cooperate,
Know they're out there somewhere
Yet they seem to evaporate.
Can ya sleep without a bed
On cold. wet, rainin' nights,
Or walk away from a campfire
In a frost so cold it bites?
Could ya stand to hear em' brawlin',
Smell burnin' hide and hair?
To birth em' or unearth em
Buried in mud while on a tear.
No, it ain't all songs and glory,
Mostly it's hard as hell!
Sore achin' back and backside,
Sleepless nights as well.
So ya want to be a cowboy
Knowin' what's up-do ya care?
You'll risk your hide and ride!
Then pard, put er' there.
© 2004, Tex Hewitt
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
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